February 17, 2017
If you’ve ever had a cat, you know what I mean when I say that cats live in a world of their own. My apartment is on the 24th floor, and there is precious little going on outside my windows. But not to Mr. Taksi. His favorite spot is the especially wide windowsill in the living room. And he makes getting to that spot a challenge to be conquered every day in a new manner. I’ll try to illuminate with a picture or two, but only those who know cats will be able to envision how delicately Mr. Taksi has to step among succulents so as to avoid knocking them from their stems.
There is no single way to get to the place where he can spread out, and getting there is half the fun. I’d have to run a video for you to see how it happens, but there are other things to talk about in what I am calling Mr. Taksi’s World. There is the question of closets: I have an abundance of them, and they open either with sliding doors or with ordinary doors. Some of them are large enough for a cat to get lost in. And Taksi has been locked in almost every one of those closets, since among his skills is an ability to slip through a door even when I think I am watching for him.
And then there is the question of eating. Mr. Taksi won’t accept that I have offered him a place mat on which I would place his food in a beautiful Japanese bowl. Not on his life. He treats the place mat as his resting place, even when it’s crammed into the corner of the kitchen where he’s fed. He demonstrates twice a day that he must sit on the place mat, no matter my wishes.
Finally, a word about depression for those who know that virus. It’s not gone, but it’s not grabbed me as before. For this cat makes me laugh out loud, and if you’re laughing, it’s hard to be depressed at the same moment. He makes me laugh by turning everything he can into a toy: favorites include the ends of pens, crinkly paper squeezed into a ball, an old sock rolled into a ball; in short, anything that can be batted around the apartment from wooden floors to carpets and back again. He’s knocked some things under the couch and the fridge, where they are inaccessible, but he hasn’t forgotten them. Searching for them, he comes up with his white front paws turned charcoal. And my hollering “no, no, no” dissuades him only temporarily. To be continued….
January 23, 2017
It’s 9 p.m., Friday, January 20, 2017. Yes, I haven’t written a blog about my new cat, his beauty and his “talking” to me as though he had some Siamese streak in him, my calling him Mr. Taksi, in part because of my taxi-driving father I loved. I’ve had the cat since January 3, although two days after he arrived, his eyes told me he was ill. At the same time, whatever is wrong with me, especially my ability to walk, has been growing worse so that I cried in rehab, not only because of the pain, but because it all felt so useless: walking three steps forward and metaphorically falling four steps backward. So what to do?
Victoria Pajak (Vicki), the woman who has been coming to my apartment at eight p.m. to give Mr. Taksi his evening eye drops and throat drops, knew nothing of my state of mind, but she chose one moment last night to tell me about her two cats, both of whom had been strays, and one of whom was totally blind. The two, normal and blind had been adopted together and they had grown up as close friends and delightful pets.
So, yes, I stopped feeling sorry for myself, at least for an evening. But it’s hard that I can’t pick up my cat—my arms are no longer strong enough to hold a 13-pound cat. Nor can I get down on the floor with him. And it will take some time for him to learn that he can have petting from me only when on the couch or the bed.
As for my own physical state, I’m trying to get an appointment with a couple of neurologists and hear their takes on neuropathy, if that’s what I’ve got (along with depression). I am trying to think about ways to be cheerful—and there’s politics to depress me daily, so that’s not the route to follow. Suggestions? I have used the usual: yes, I have my brain, and my fingers still work at the keyboard; I live in New York and there are taxis to get me to appointments; I still have a few old friends and I have made a few young new friends. I have a comfortable apartment. And I don’t have cancer or Alzheimer’s. So, Florence, I talk to myself: cheer up!
*Note: I’ve been typing journals usually every day, since returning from Mississippi’s Freedom Schools in August, 1964 and 1965. And long before computers, I typed journals on a typewriter. When I travelled, I wrote in tiny notebooks (and I have more than 100 of them). Later, of course I had a laptop when I traveled. These journals were both private as well as political. I would not have thought of sending them out to the world. But that’s where a blog has to go, and I was urged by Feminist Press to start a blog after my memoir appeared. It was hard not to confuse the blog with the journal, but I worked that out. I’m writing this today because this is the first of what I can call a blog/journal. It’s more personal than usual, or at least that’s how it seems to me. It’s also being filed with the journals, not the blogs.
December 19, 2016
For at least two decades I have been writing an end-of-year letter and sending it out via e-mail to friends around the world, including especially the African friends who worked on our four huge Feminist Press anthologies, Women Writing Africa
. I am also going to post the letter this year on my website (www.florencehowe.com).
Let me say, first, that I had hoped this letter would celebrate Hillary Clinton’s victory as feminist, humanist, and an experienced internationalist. Some of you who will read this were present in the Chinese auditorium two decades ago, as I was, when Hillary spoke that famous sentence: “Women’s rights are human rights; and human rights are women’s rights.” So our work will have to continue, and I am certain that Hillary will be on the front lines of that work.
My personal news is mixed. I continue to miss my active life of walking and swimming, not to mention travelling. Despite a dozen doctors I have seen, there is no real diagnosis, but only placebos, some of which have back-fired and been therefore abandoned. Right now I am counting on rehab and a clever, hands-on therapist to strengthen my right leg so that I might be able to walk with only a cane again. But I want distant friends to know that I remain in my own apartment, and I have made various adjustments so that I can be independent.
I write a journal every day which goes into a folder. And once a week or at least three times a month I write a blog which is posted on my website that I continue to maintain, with the help of Jen Petras, my dear Ohio friend. Writing keeps me sane, I think, and it is, as for many people, one way to work out their depression. I’ve also been writing poems, some of which I may decide to post on the blog as well.
What else do I do (aside from seeing doctors)? I go to the opera and to theatre, usually with Helene Goldfarb, occasionally also with friends Shirley Mow, Elyse Hilton, Don Thomas, Jorge Cao. Elyse also visits to talk literature and to help me walk when the weather permits. AnnJ looks after my needs in certain magical ways, and she visits frequently, given that she lives in Washington, D.C.
The most striking family news is that granddaughter Dr. Florence Wright, named after me, moved to Los Angeles almost a year ago and was married last week to Jason Neville, a Louisiana-bred city planner who works for the mayor. Other family members continue to thrive in Kansas, Mississippi, D.C., and even Brooklyn, though except for AnnJ, I see them rarely.
What do I do aside from entertainment? I sit on four Boards, though I am not as active as I used to be. I still long for real work, though I am also a realist about its disappearance from my life. Occasionally, I have proofread or copyedited for the Feminist Press. I am very proud of the fact that six books published by the Press have had favorable reviews in the New York Times
Finally, perhaps you are wondering how I manage being alone at 87. What do I do that gives me pleasure? Sometimes great pleasure? It’s reading and writing, of course. A good movie sometimes—I saw Rainman
last night here in my study. A good play—Heidigger
, which I’ve seen twice, was excellent, as was Master Harold and the Boys.
As for books, the list would be too long for this letter. I continue to be a fan of Kazuo Ishiguro, have read all his books.
And yes, there is the writing. Why don’t I get on with it? Why do I write only journals and blogs? It’s like asking the question about the election: why were so many people taken in by a fast-talking, know-nothing egomaniac (and these are kind words for the man)? There are many answers to these questions, mostly not heroic but mundane. The best I can do today is to say what my favorite diva sings, “I’m still here.”
Finally, I want to dedicate this blog to the little dog who kept me company when Don and Jorge travelled. Yoya died at ten of heart disease. The happiest, sweetest bundle of fur just keeled over upstairs, after a walk. She has been replaced—yes, it’s possible with pooches—by Fefa, hardly six months old. I know you will like the photos of Yoya.
December 12, 2016
Everyone loves presents, including me, and especially when the presents are genuine surprises. I was passing the main lobby desk, on my way out to an event certain to cheer me up, when I heard that I had flowers. Reluctantly, I said they’d have to wait. I assumed I’d be out only for an hour or so.
I was going to the Colony Club, a most uncommon destination for me, accompanied by Therese (Te) Revesz, who, to my surprise, was one of my students at Goucher College in the 1960s. I taught at that expensive girls’ college (now co-ed) from 1960 to 1971. I have often said that those years were my best teaching years. During that decade I learned, especially from my experience in a Mississippi Freedom School, how to teach so that students learned not only who they were and what privileges they had, but how to write about the non-equal world they inhabited. This was, of course, the decade in which women and girls began to see themselves differently. Though I’ve written in my memoir about how much teaching meant to me, I have not exhausted that subject.
At the Colony Club, I was to meet several dozen Goucher alumna who had graduated in 1968, and who had been my students at some point during the years between 1964 and 1968. They approached me singly or in pairs, remembering Freshman English and the courses I taught in British and American Poetry. One student recalled that a whole course on William Butler Yeats had sent her to Ireland to visit all the areas he wrote about. Both heartening and embarrassing, they remembered more than I could, and claimed that my courses “changed their lives.”
I hardly know what to say when students make such claims, but I try to understand that they are also being kind to an old lady, since I remember so little in detail of the kinds of courses they were describing to me. Indeed, as I sit here and type, I am remembering with greater clarity the undergraduate courses I took at Hunter College with Professor Pearl Wilson (in Greek tragedy), for example, or in Modern British Literature with Katherine Gatch and Marion Witt. Did they change my life?
And now I come to the second half of what I’ve promised: the flowers waiting for me. The first batch were African Violets, deep purple flowers and deep green leaves distributed in three yellow clay pots, needing only some water, and with a sweet note from the two guys in my life, Don Thomas and Jorge Cao, and their new puppy, Fefa; the second was a large pot filled with soil out of which peeped a bulb, also needing only water. The bulb came from Elyse Hilton, a relatively new friend who came to share her poetry (and prose) and to be my walking companion. Our good times together continue.
Yes, I continue to wince as I hear about the military men, millionaire bankers, and anti-labor, anti-women, anti-minority others who will fill Trump’s cabinet. But I am also perking up, ready to fight back.
November 29, 2016
I took three taxis today. Yes, though I am going broke, I have no other way of moving around New York City, since I am not mobile enough to deal with public buses or subways. I continue to be struck by the kindness of these taxi drivers, since stopping for me means that they need to get out of their seats and actively help me and my walker enter their cabs. And sometimes it doesn’t work and they need to leave me and move on. Never have I heard an unkind word; never has anyone been anything but kind and considerate of my feelings.
And of course that made me think about the people close to me, many of who are distinctly inconvenienced by my state, as well as, and I am guessing here, disappointed that things are not as easy as they used to be. I am not who I used to be. And perhaps I am on a roller coaster that moves only in one direction….downwards.
Today, I saw the young man, Aki, who has been cutting my hair for the last ten or fifteen years, during which time he has married and become the father of two darling little girls, now six months and three years. I made a sweater and hat for the first little girl, nothing yet for the second, but she may have used them as well. Aki suggested quietly that perhaps the next time I need a haircut he would come to me, since the ice and snow would not be possible for me to traverse. Even today, it was difficult to get up the cement steps to the hallway and then into an elevator. And a very kind young woman offered to see me downstairs and to get a taxi for me, since I was going on to see dear Dr. Charney, the neurologist who was so brilliant about Mariam Chamberlain’s emergency treatment that she lived her last six years in relative physical comfort.
Dr. Charney has also been kind, considerate, and clever with regard to what ails me, though he also has not offered what isn’t possible. For me, his comforting assurance that I was not a candidate for Alzheimer’s has been most important. I’ve often said that I could live with disability as long as I could use my fingers at a keyboard. And that is now where I am. But I can’t walk normally and no one can tell me why not. Dr. Charney once again offered rehab to me. I tell him my feet are sometime burning hot and he murmurs neuropathy and offers me a tiny dose of something that may stop the heat. Take these and call me on Friday, he says.
Where am I going?--you may be asking. I began with the kindness of strangers, moved on to people whom I have known for some years, but the person in my head when I began to write was AnnJ, my daughter-in-law, who spent her days researching walkers to find one that she knew would please me. See the photo of the walker both opened and closed. It goes to the opera and the theatre quite easily, as well as to doctors, and even to a grocery store for a couple of things. And I haven’t been thinking of Thanksgiving, though there must have been some thought of the holiday in my spirit tonight as I sit here and enjoy the movement of my fingers on the keyboard.
Enjoy tomorrow….though this message may reach you days later. We can’t go on mourning. We need action, vigilance, intelligence, and planning for the future….Would that I could heed my own words!
November 22, 2016
Like you, I have been sleepless and numb, without appetite for food or news. When I’m at the computer, I can edge out only a few lines of Journal, not even half a page. And I say nothing worth remembering. So I am trying today, in the last hour before I have to leave to meet Helene for dinner at a restaurant called “Lincoln,” before seeing Manon Lescaut, an opera by Puccini, part of our annual series. It’s a tragic love story, like most opera, and I don’t think it’s been done often. At least I’m sure I never have seen/heard it.
So yes, as people say, “I do get out of the house.” But not joyously, not with any expectations that the experience will “help.” There is no “help” in sight for at least two years, if not four. And the weight of what has just happened to U.S. politics is crushing, at least for me, and perhaps it’s that I’m so old, so old, that there is little fight left in me for what has to be done. My grandchild—the youngest one of them, still in her twenties—has already been in demonstrations, and plans to attend the huge rally in D.C. in January. I’m glad to know that, and sad that my days for such actions have passed, and that this generation will have to fight all over again for what we thought we had won for them.
So, yes, I’ve written more than one paragraph, and I seem able to keep going. What to say for comfort? Thanksgiving is three days away, and we must give thanks for the eight years of President Obama and for his recent vow to pitch in during the next four years. And I am sure that Hillary will also do her part. Perhaps they and Bernie and others in the Senate will be able to diminish the power of the Republicans at the two-year point.
I am looking at bursts of sunlight lighting up a cloud-filled dark sky. An omen? A wish for an omen. Please tell me good news. I want to see Angelica Merkel reelected. Am I losing it?
Ellen Bass’s poem she sent out recently is called “Any Common Desolation.” There was a bit of comfort in it for me. Perhaps for you too.
Any Common Desolation
can be enough to make you look up
at the yellowed leaves of the apple tree, the few
that survived the rains and frost, shot
with late afternoon sun. They glow a deep
orange-gold against a blue so sheer, a single bird
would rip it like silk. You may have to break
your heart, but it isn’t nothing
to know even one moment alive. The sound
of an oar in an oarlock or a ruminant
animal tearing grass. The smell of grated ginger.
The ruby neon of the liquor store sign.
Warm socks. You remember your mother,
her precision a ceremony, as she gathered
the white cotton, slipped it over your toes,
drew up the heel, turned the cuff. A breath
can uncoil as you walk across your own muddy yard,
the big dipper pouring night down over you, and everything
you dread, all you can’t bear, dissolves
and, like a needle slipped into your vein—
that sudden rush of the world.
November 9, 2016
And I’ve not slept since Monday night. I wanted to write blogs from Spain, and it never happened. Then I was going to write some catch-ups as soon as I returned. But I came home unable to crack the jetlag, and fell apart from lack of sleep. No blogs, not even journals.
I was really sick, some kind of virus probably picked up on the plane, or so two doctors agreed, and I was given some treatment and began to feel better. Just before election day I had voted absentee and so I spent the actual day watching others, determined to stay up and see Hillary win.
And all of you know how that turned out. For me, I found myself violently ill, ill enough to make me feel I would not survive the night. Yes, I survived and made it to my next doctor’s appointment, and even to another meeting.
How do I feel? Sad, a bit broken, exhausted. I am still alive and still sentient. And wanting to hear Hillary’s speech today. I promise a real blog within the next week.
October 4, 2016
Two weeks to go to Mallorca, and I’ve begun a new course of Rehab, this one designed to improve my leg, back, and stomach muscles so that I can walk normally again. All I can do is begin the process, and thus prepare myself for a long journey and for the swimming I hope to do each day which will keep me mobile. And when I return I will continue with the rehab.
I used to joke about the rehab I endured three years ago, after the knee replacement surgery: I was practicing to walk sideways and backwards. Never to walk forward, that was my joke. But why? Certainly, the new therapist to whom I’ve been assigned has given me new courage and hope. The first thing she had me do was walk forward across a room, sit down, stand, and walk back again. Yes, I was slow and awkward, but I managed it. And the session with her made me feel hopeful as I haven’t felt in years. Perhaps, with her help, I will be able to walk again.
More about her when I get to know her better, but I will say that she is tiny, elegantly tiny. She also describes herself as a Tibetan from India, and she was very coherent about the muscles that need to fire if I’m to walk. Some of these muscles are still functional; some seem out of it. But she warned me not to give up, that they all show some elasticity and energy, even those seemingly most tired or plain worn out.
My job for the next two weeks, apart from rehab and some exercises in between is to decide what I am going to be working on at the workshop: prose or poems? Old ones that need revising? New ones that simply might arise from returning to a place I enjoy?
And perhaps I will be able to write a blog from Mallorca, where the weather is ideal, clear, in the low eighties and sunny during the day, cooler at night, with no rain in sight, at least for my two weeks. If I sound unusually excited it’s that I’ve not been out of the country in two years, and not in Mallorca in three years. This may be my last time, and yes, I’m grateful for every day I get.
September 26, 2016
Ellen Bass hosts a workshop and retreat at one of the most beautiful places I have been lucky enough to visit, Mallorca, an island off the coast of Spain. For a week a dozen writers will come together with Ellen to write and read aloud what they’ve written, in a workshop held at a lovely house appropriately called La Serrania, for serene it is. It sits like a small sturdy jewel in a rural area, surrounded on all sides by green hills. When I was there last, three years ago, I spent a whole day trying to write a poem about the various greens of the surrounding countryside and hills.
If you’ve been reading my blog even occasionally, you might know that I’ve not been well enough even to travel locally. But I have also been improving, and I am determined to go, not because of my writing, but rather because of my psyche. I want to breathe in the health that Serrania emanates, in part because of the beauty of its simple but powerful structure, in part because of its location, a green gem in the ocean. Three years ago, on the final day of my week, I wrote,
Why do I need to catch this scene?
Why is it essential to my life today?
Why could I not see it yesterday in the brilliant sun?
When I tried to name the greens and found I had too few words?
Is it the souvenir I want to carry back into my urban life?
Does it signify the peace I feel at Serrania
Despite the turmoil I unroll on the screen each day,
Torments twisting out of shape all that was once beautiful?
The last three years have not been healthy years for me. I want to turn that ever-beckoning corner and find I can walk freely again. Perhaps two weeks on the sun-drenched, gemlike green island will help me. More to come.
September 11, 2016
Like most New Yorkers, the brilliance of that day, fifteen years ago, and the deaths it charted remain fresh and clear in all my mind. Many disasters can be set beside it, including the long siege of war in Syria, for example. Still, it is important that each of us remember what we can of the terrible and terrifying history of our time. What I remember vividly begins with voting that day in a primary at a school near where I used to live on the East Side of Manhattan, and then taking a taxi to a doctor’s office, where there was pure chaos, lots of shouting to get out of there. It was 9:30 in the morning, and I knew nothing about what had happened, and assumed I could get another taxi to take me home, since I was carrying a thousand page manuscript, part of Women Writing Africa.
I walked out on Amsterdam Avenue, where, strangely, there were no taxis or buses, only people walking. And so I walked north, hoping I’d spot a cab on the way, and I did at 86th Street, where, despite the weight of the manuscript, I sprinted towards it, opened a back door, and slid in. The cabbie was crying, huge sobs rang from his body, and when I asked what was wrong, he said, “My sister, my sister, she’s in that building.” And that was all I could get out of him. Finally, he heard me when I said I would give him all the cash in my wallet if he took me home. He was headed, he said, to Queens, where he lived, and my apartment was on the east side of Manhattan, just ten minutes away. And he agreed.
But the first problem was that all the crossings of Central Park had been closed, and so we drove north to 110th Street, and east to Lexington Avenue and then south to 87th and Third Avenue, where I lived. I emptied my wallet, wished him well, and went up to my apartment, still carrying the huge manuscript. The journey had taken more than an hour because of the volume of traffic.
And only then—at perhaps one p.m., when I turned on the television—did I see what had happened early in the morning when I and countless New Yorkers were voting or arriving at work. The television played the clips of each plane hitting each of the Towers, and then the clips of each of the Towers falling down. And I am not sure whether that early day we also had sight of the people who chose to jump from the building before it began to collapse.
I sat for three or four hours, trying to locate all the friends I knew who worked in lower Manhattan, and for all of that time I could not find Mariam Chamberlain, who had voted and arrived at her office at least half an hour before any of this began. She was not in the Twin Towers, but in a building a few blocks away. And while she could see the horrors, she could not leave until late afternoon, and there were no phone lines she could have used to tell friends she was all right. She luckily found a bus nearby that was going from lower Manhattan up the east side as far as 34th Street, where she emerged to walk the twenty blocks to where she lived, and I reached her then, at almost evening.
It’s clear to me that I need to hear the names of the dead read out for the world to hear and I will also see the dreadful clips of the planes—only now we will also have to remember the two other planes as well as the views of those jumping and of the buildings collapsing as though they were made of dust, not steel.
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