Pic of the Day

 

Moment of Zen: Showers

Pic of the Day

 

A Rough Couple of Days

 

Yesterday was a rough day. Something had me extremely drowsy. I woke up, fed Isabella, and when I couldn’t keep my eyes open any longer, I went back to bed. Later, I managed to write yesterday’s post and get ready for work, but I was still so out of it that I nearly fell asleep in the shower. At that point, I realized it wasn’t safe for me to drive. I texted my boss to let her know I was having some issues—balance and nausea, which were also true—and went back to bed.

When I woke up again, I felt a little better. My back and leg weren’t bothering me as much, and I wasn’t quite as drowsy, though the nausea lingered. Once I got to work, I was too busy to focus on how tired I felt, but the nausea stuck with me all day. I finally managed to eat a little dinner before heading to bed early, waiting for the dark to settle in.

This morning I woke up with a headache and lingering nausea, though I did manage some coffee and breakfast. I sort of slept well, but Isabella was agitated all night. She woke me at 10:30 for an unusual snuggle—curling up on my chest while I petted her until we both drifted off. Then she woke me again at 12:30, 1:30, 2:30, and 4:00. I got up a few times to check on things—my blood sugar (since she has woken me before when I was hypoglycemic), her food and water, even just walking around the apartment. She had plenty of water, but I topped it off anyway. I never did figure out what was bothering her.

I’ll be glad to get home after work today. If I’m still feeling rough by lunchtime, I may just call it and come home. I’m looking forward to a restful weekend, though I do have an event to work tomorrow night. Thankfully, it’s not long, and I’ll be with some people I truly enjoy working with.

Wishing you all a great Friday and a wonderful weekend ahead!

Pic of the Day

 

Balancing Acts

Yesterday was a rough day. I actually expect the same today—not for the same reasons (at least I hope not)—but because I have an event to attend that usually requires standing for long periods and sitting in those uncomfortable folding chairs. With my back, I can’t stand too long and I certainly can’t sit in the wrong kind of chair for very long either. The event is scheduled for three hours, though I suspect we’ll only be there an hour and a half or two. Still, even that feels daunting.

What made yesterday difficult was having to go down into the basement to pull some objects for this event. My boss and I have already discussed my difficulty with stairs, and I’d been told to ask a particular person for help. When I did, that person went to my supervisor to complain—and instead of backing me up, my supervisor somewhat chastised me for even asking. Thankfully, someone outside of my department offered to help, which made all the difference.

I think today will work out fine, but I know my back and leg will pay for it later. After standing longer than usual yesterday, I already paid the price last night with extra pain. Still, I’m holding onto hope that each day brings a little more strength, a little more resilience, and maybe—just maybe—a little less pain.

Pic of the Day

Running on Empty

Some mornings, the words just don’t want to come. Today is one of those mornings. I thought maybe I’d write an art history post, but nothing has clicked yet. Maybe tomorrow inspiration will strike, but today, I’m drawing a blank.

Part of the problem is that work has been so busy lately as I catch up from when I was out. Yesterday was productive—I actually managed to get quite a bit done—but by the time I got home, I was wiped out. It felt like I had run a marathon without leaving my desk. Of course, there’s still plenty more to tackle today. Somehow the pile never gets smaller, it just rearranges itself into new and interesting shapes.

Right now, though, I don’t exactly feel like conquering that pile. I’m sitting here, yawning, wishing energy would magically appear. But I also haven’t had coffee yet, and let’s be honest—without coffee, I’m basically running on fumes. A cup or two might just be the miracle cure. Isabella has already had her breakfast and is now looking far more content and energized than I feel. I swear that cat has better time management than I do. Her daily schedule mostly consists of sleeping, staring out the window at the birds, eating a snack, and then fitting in a few more naps before starting the whole cycle over again.

So here’s to coffee, to productivity (hopefully), and to finding a spark of inspiration when it decides to arrive. Maybe tomorrow I’ll have an art post to share, but for now, I’ll just share the honest truth of a sleepy morning trying to find its rhythm.

Pic of the Day

Those Everlasting Blues

I’ve never been much of a fan of modernist poetry. Too often, it feels esoteric—odd for the sake of odd. When I used to teach American Literature, I would show my students two classic examples from Ezra Pound:

L’Art, 1910
by Ezra Pound

Green arsenic smeared on an egg-white cloth,
Crushed strawberries! Come, let us feast our eyes.

A splash of color, yes, but more like a cryptic painter’s note than a poem—striking yet emotionally opaque.

And then his most famous imagist fragment:

In a Station of the Metro
by Ezra Pound

The apparition of these faces in the crowd;
Petals on a wet, black bough.

Haunting, yes, but abstract and slippery, more an intellectual exercise than a window into human feeling.

Sixteen words about a wheelbarrow, fourteen words about a metro station—striking, but also elusive.

So when The American Academy of Poets’ Poem-a-Day recently featured Alfred Kreymborg’s “Those Everlasting Blues,” I expected something similar—another cryptic fragment of modernism. Instead, I was taken aback. This poem spoke to me in a way I didn’t anticipate. Beneath its simple diction and repetition, I heard the cry of a heart broken by longing. And in that ache, I recognized something deeply personal.

Since beginning this blog, I’ve been blessed with many wonderful friendships, like my cherished bond with Susan. But there have also been two men who, in different ways, claimed my heart. One lived far away and struggled with a debilitating illness; when he passed, I mourned but had known it was inevitable. The other’s loss, though, nearly destroyed me. He was a fragile young man who had begun to rebuild his life, and though he loved someone else, he also loved me—and I him. We spoke every day, ending each night with “I love you.” Then a tragic car accident cut his life short, and with it, a piece of my own heart.

Reading Kreymborg’s poem, I felt all of that loss return—the “everlasting blues” of loving someone you cannot keep. It reminded me that poetry’s power isn’t in being clever or obscure, but in giving voice to the things we ourselves can barely name.

Those Everlasting Blues
By Alfred Kreymborg

There ain’t gonna be
any more
mad parties
between
you and me
and it ain’t
gonna be
because I
love you less
but love you more.
And there ain’t
gonna be
any more
sad parties
between us two
because I’m
gonna forget
what I want
till I see
what I want
is you.
And I ain’t
gonna find
what you are
till I find
what it is
that you want
of me
and how
am I
gonna see
what it is
till all
of myself
loves you.
And I don’t
really love
you though I
love you more
than the world
till I learn
to swallow
whatever
you’d like
me to do.
And I ain’t
gonna down
whatever
that little
may be
till I love
me less and
love you more
and love you
for yourself
alone.
If there ain’t
gonna be
any loving
just you
alone
then it’s up
to me to
be taking
myself and
moving myself
off home.
And I’ll
be dragging
what’s left of me
to my lonely
room in the blue
and never
come back
and never
crawl back
till I’m through
just hugging
me.
And I ain’t
no I ain’t
gonna stop
doing that as
I ought to do
till I’m ab-
solutely and
positively
in love and
in love with
you.
And when I’ve
done that and
done only that
and done all of that
for you
you’ll hear me
on the doorstep
ringing at the
doorbell
for one more
party for two.
With nothing
mad in it
nothing sad
in it but
a long glad
lifelong spree
with me myself
loving you yourself
and you
loving me
for me.

When reading Alfred Kreymborg’s “Those Everlasting Blues” today, it’s easy to feel the poem pulsing with queer longing. The speaker aches for someone elusive, desired but never quite possessed. The repetition of “blues” and the sense of yearning that never resolves can strike a modern queer reader as deeply familiar: the pain of unspoken desire, of wanting someone who cannot—or will not—be fully yours.

Even though the poem is voiced as a woman’s lament for a man, nothing in the language itself insists on a heterosexual relationship. In fact, if we strip away the assumed gendering, the poem reads seamlessly as one man mourning his infatuation with another. Kreymborg’s plain, conversational diction keeps the focus on raw feeling rather than social convention, which makes the poem ripe for queer reinterpretation.

This is the power of queer reading: taking texts from the past and listening for the silences, the undercurrents, and the ways desire breaks through the boundaries of its time. For many queer readers today, Kreymborg’s “blues” could be the blues of any marginalized love—aching, unending, and yet profoundly human.

So does this mean Kreymborg himself was gay? Not necessarily. Biographically, there is no evidence he engaged in same-sex relationships. But “Those Everlasting Blues” belongs to his 1916 collection Manhattan Men, where he frequently wrote in other voices—shifting genders, adopting dramatic personae, and speaking through masks.

This “gender ventriloquism” was part of the larger modernist toolbox. Early twentieth-century poets often experimented with persona and dramatic monologue, inspired by classical models and energized by the free verse movement. Ezra Pound spoke through medieval troubadours, H.D. adopted mythic figures like Eurydice and Helen, and T.S. Eliot gave voice to Prufrock and Tiresias. For Kreymborg, writing in a woman’s voice allowed him to explore emotional registers that might have been difficult to express directly.

While his original intent may not have been queer, his willingness to blur identity in poetry—speaking as “the other”—is what allows queer readers to hear themselves in his work. The fluidity of voice makes his poetry feel like a space where hidden or forbidden desires could be expressed indirectly.

Whether or not Alfred Kreymborg personally shared the “everlasting blues” of same-sex longing, his poem gives us a vessel to pour that experience into. That is the beauty of queer reading: recognizing how art transcends the limits of biography and becomes a space where new meanings—our meanings—can flourish.


About the Poet

Alfred Kreymborg (1883–1966) was an American poet, playwright, editor, and anthologist who played a key role in the rise of literary modernism in New York. A central figure in Greenwich Village’s bohemian scene, he was the founding editor of Others: A Magazine of the New Verse (1915–1919), which introduced American audiences to avant-garde voices like Marianne Moore, William Carlos Williams, Wallace Stevens, and Mina Loy.

Kreymborg’s career was eclectic—he wrote poetry, drama, fiction, and memoirs, and even performed on mandolin in experimental productions. His work was often overshadowed by his more famous contemporaries, but he was a connector and promoter of new voices at a time when American poetry was breaking free from strict formal traditions.

Importantly, Kreymborg moved in circles that included many queer and queer-adjacent writers: Hart Crane, Djuna Barnes, and others who challenged conventional ideas of gender, sexuality, and identity in literature. While there is no evidence that Kreymborg himself identified as gay, his friendships and collaborations with these writers placed him in a cultural moment where queer creativity thrived beneath the surface.