“N” is for the Nothing Feeling

This is a poem that Russ wrote in April, 1979. I was in New York shortly after he wrote these verses and I wonder how things would have been had I met him then. Would I have continued on to Italy? Would we have been draw to each other, as we were in later years? Or would we have hated each other, so different then, yet so alike? Even now, I yearn to take away the pain and sadness described in this bitter-sweet poem. And yet, I think all of us have felt this way at least once in our life.

 

The Nothing Feeling

A neon moon is flashing

With midnight coming soon

a neon moon is rising

the juke box plays it’s tune

and a thousand little sorrows

overflow an empty glass

as I sit and think of nothing

and nothing comes to pass.

 

Sometimes I feel so weary

sometimes I gather strength

sometimes I feel so weary

at my story and it’s length

It’s like a nickel novel

with  a slowly turning page

as I sit and think of nothing

and nothing comes of age.

 

So lay me down

Lay me down

On the far side of the river

By the Holy ground

Lay me down

Lay me down

On the bright side of the river

I’ll be heaven bound.

 

The whiskey’s in the tumbler

the beer is in the stein

the whiskey’s in the tumbler

my money’s on the line

sometimes I feel so lonely

that the only thing’s to cry

as I sit and think of nothing

and nothing passes by.

 

And a thousand little sorrows

overflow an empty glass

a thousand little sorrows

letting nothing come to pass

and a neon moon is flashing

on a slowly turning page

as I sit and think of nothing

 

and nothing comes of age.

 

So lay me down

Lay me down

On the far side of the river

By the Holy ground

Lay me down

Lay me down

On the other side of the river

I’ll be heaven bound.

 

4/79

 

© Mary Purpari and Russ Kelly “N” is for the Nothing Feeling April 16, 2014

“L” is for Living in Limbo Land and Lunar Eclipses

The first thing I’d like to do in this blog entry today is apologize to everyone for the less than cheerful blogs and comments I have been writing lately. The last three and a half months since Russ died have been a little difficult for me and I’m really not the most cheerful person in town, I guess. But, this challenge has been helping me out, too and I think some of my humor is returning; at least I’m not crying continuously.

When Russ first died, I couldn’t stop crying; when I woke up in the morning, the pillows would be drenched. I cried so much that my tears weren’t salty any more and I truly have no idea why I didn’t become dehydrated. When I went to his memorial, I promised myself that I wouldn’t cry, that I would be strong; I lied. I did pretty well until I was right at the very end and then, my lower lip began to quiver and the dam collapsed, letting all the unshed tears flow down my face like a waterfall. Anything and everything was a cause for crying, and cry I did.

Now, I suppose one could say things are a little better. At least, as I said, I’m not crying as much and I do laugh a little. Sometimes. But I’m not sure if living in a limbo land can actually be classified as better. Sure, my pillows are dry in the morning, but I just don’t have any real feelings. I’m just…there. When the guys in the bodega across the street ask me how I am, I just say I’m okay. And they know that with me, okay is not so great, because they have known me for over four years and they knew Russ, too. I’m listless and I either eat too much or not enough, depending on the day. I don’t cry as much, but then again I don’t laugh as much either, and even cracking a smile takes a lot out of me. Sometimes, I lay in bed and wonder whether I should get up or not, but then Kitty pops into my window, and the decision is made for me.

Other mornings, though, I wake up after a wonderful dream in which Cute Guy has appeared and the whole day is happy. I smile and even enjoy the weather. Except that Wednesday they said we may be getting more snow, and I am not particularly thrilled by this.Those are also the mornings when I usually have a wake-up song that sticks with me all day long. So, you see? There’s still hope for me. And no one can take away the healing power of Narcissi and pansies and I have both; the cats didn’t even sleep on top of them. Of course, I warned kitty that her meal ticket would be cancelled if she did, and she’s a lot smarter than she looks. But, there you have it: the old me is starting to pop out every once in a while.

If you’re wondering about the second part of my title, I just wanted to remind everyone that tonight, visible throughout the entire United States, the moon is favoring us with a total eclipse, or blood moon. I’m hoping I can stay awake long enough – or wake up in time – to see the spectacular show. Of course, this also depends on the weather…

“K” is for Krazy Little Kitty

Okay, so I am “owned” by a little feral cat who hasn’t completely understood yet that she is a feral kitty. She understands enough that she doesn’t bring her babies up to the house, which is fine with me; not that I don’t like cats, because I do, it’s just that she has TOO MANY! One time, she brought seven or nine kittens up (I can’t remember which, there were so many of them).

Russ and I met Kitty in April, 2011.  We were outside looking at the tomato and zucchini plants I had just planted and this teensy little black cat came walking up to us begging to be pet. Now, Russ was allergic to cats, even though he liked them, but I have no such problems and as I bent over to cuddle her a little I discovered that her tummy was a little too wiggly—uh oh! babies in arrival. This was bad, since she was little more than a kitten herself.

We had a folded tarp hanging from the floor upstairs, along the fence; one morning I looked outside my bedroom window and saw the tarp moving around in an odd manner – she had decided that that was the perfect place to have her kittens. There were 4 of them, and they all survived; however, they didn’t have their mother’s friendly disposition, although they didn’t disdain to eat the food that Russ and I left out for them. (By the way, Russ was responsible for naming her Little Kitty). They left the premises, though, when they were old enough to fend for themselves.

Now, Kitty is still the sweet-tempered little cat she always was; the difference is that she no longer gives birth on my porch (maybe because my landlady took away the tarp; who knows?)She hasn’t stopped giving birth (as you can see from the picture); she just does it elsewhere. She does have one hilarious habit, that had both Russ and I laughing our sides off (I still do): she likes to sit outside in the window, and when she sees us (me) come into the kitchen, she climbs up and starts doing a regular gymnastics routine, right between the window bars and the screen. It was Russ’ idea to make a video and add Nadia’s theme to it. He never got to see the video, but I’m pretty sure he would have loved it. I hope you all do, too. I’m so thankful for this crazy little cat and her gymnastics for helping me start my day with a smile, in a time when smiles are few and far between.

Little kitty and her gymnastics routine to Nadia’s theme.

 

© “K” is for Krazy Little Kitty, Mary Purpari April 11, 2014

“J” is for Jesus of Nazareth

One of the millions of discussions Russ and I had regarded which of the two main Christian holidays we considered to be the most important (I think it was about three or four years ago). His was Christmas and, knowing how much I loved the Christmas season, he was more than a little shocked when I told him I thought Easter was the most important.

When he asked me why, I told him that it was because Easter is the day that we celebrate Jesus’ atonement and resurrection from the dead. He rebutted with the fact that without Christmas, there would have been no  resurrection. If nothing else, I always try to be honest, so I had to tell him that he was right – on that point. But, I also had to say that everybody has a birthday, including him; my next question knocked him for a loop, as we used to say: If Jesus hadn’t atoned for our sins in the Garden of Gethsemane and risen from the dead, would we celebrate  his birthday now, two thousand years later? He just stared at me for a long moment, and then walked away, shaking his head and muttering. 

But who is this Jesus, this man of Nazareth, who lived so many years ago? The prophet Isaiah said: “He is despised and rejected of men…But he was wounded for our transgressions, he was bruised for our iniquities: the chastisement of our peace was upon him; and with his stripes, we are healed.”¹ An angel said at his birth: “Fear not, for behold I bring you glad tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people, for unto you is born this day, in the city of Judah, a Savior, who is Christ the Lord.” ²

For me, Jesus is my oldest brother, my very best friend, the world’s best friend—He is there for all. He is the most generous, because he was willing to give his life, so that we could have the chance to return to live with Him and our Heavenly Father. He lived a mortal life so that he could better understand our trials and joys, so he could help us overcome our grief and celebrate our joys with us. He loves us and wants us to be there with him.   With the atonement, he brought eternal life to those who believe I him and do his will; with the resurrection, he overcame death so that all might live. ‘'

I believe that he will come again and at that he will live on the Earth for a thousand years.

He was also a historical figure, and was spoken of by Tacitus, Flavius, Pliny the younger, and Josephus, as well as the Talmud. None of these sources were Christian, but they attest that he did indeed live on the earth. And they spoke of the mystical powers attributed to him by his followers.³

Whether you believe or not in the divinity of Jesus of Nazareth, I wish you all a blessed Easter of Peace and Joy.

Sources:

¹Isaiah 53:4,6

²Luke 2:10,11

³Michael Gleghorn

Painting: The Second Coming, by Harry Anderson

 

©Copyright “J” is for Jesus of Nazareth, Mary Purpari, 10 April 2014

“I” is for I Will: A Long Story Shortened (Fiction)

I Will

Who knows how long I’ve loved you, you know I always will.

Shall I wait a lonely lifetime? If you want me to, I will.

For if I ever met you, I didn’t catch your name;

But it never really mattered, I will love you still the same.

Love you forever and forever, love you with all my heart;

love you whenever we’re together; love you when we’re apart.

And when at last I find you, your song will fill the air;

Sing it loud so I can hear you. Make it easy to be near you.

For the things you do endear you to me, Oh you know, I will. I will.

(Lennon, McCartney; permission pending.)

The regular members of the grief support group watched on in silence as the frail old woman hobbled to the podium. Although it was obvious from the vast network of wrinkles lining her face that she couldn’t possibly be a day under 85, the thick, curly, snow-white waist-length ponytail and bright blue eyes lent a certain vestige of youthfulness to the woman’s appearance. After tentatively reaching out to adjust the mike, she dabbed at a tear that threatened to stray down her wizened cheek.

“Hello, my name is Melody McDonald and I’m here because a friend of mine suggested that I come and share my story with you. It’s a very long story, but I will try to keep it short; time is running out, and the story needs to be told.

“I’d always thought that the term «falling in love» was odd, because I’d always envisioned it as a raising of the spirit, an enlightenment of the heart. And so it was rather ironic that day at the airport; I wasn’t paying much attention where I was going as I walked towards the customs area. The loudspeaker must not have been working very well, and I was straining to hear the sweet melody with the slightly Irish lilt to it when I ran right into a very tall man with the most delicious twinkly blue eyes. I fell at his feet, as he did mine, and when he offered his hand to help me back to my feet, I KNEW I had fallen in love. And, do you know what? So had he.

“Shortly thereafter, he moved into my apartment. Never had I been so happy as I was in the time we were together; we were so much alike in so many things. Can you believe that in the five years we were together I could count the times we quarreled on one hand? It’s true! We loved the same music, our political views were the same and, quite ironically, we even had the same degree in the same subject.

“And he was so sweet. He’d come in while I was working at my desk and just come over and give me a hug, then stay for a bit of conversation. He loved to talk, and talk, and talk… And when we watched TV in the evening, we often had no idea what was going on because of the stimulating conversation. Boring? Never! Conversation interspersed with music: unbeatable!

“And then…he died. He just left: one moment he was there and the next, he wasn’t. Only five years instead of the lifetime I had envisioned, with the two of us growing old together. I was sixty-one, and that was thirty-eight years ago.” The old one woman stifled a sob before continuing, “At times, the pain of his loss is unbearable; I try to put on a brave face, but I miss him…” She stopped as the sweet strains of a lilting, Irish sounding melody filled the air. The people rushing to the podium stopped abruptly as Ms. McDonald fell at the feet of a tall, slim man with twinkly blue eyes.

 

© “I” is for I Will, a Long Story Shortened, 2014 Mary Purpari

“H” is for Helping Hands

“And behold, I tell you these things that ye may learn wisdom; that ye may learn that when ye are in the service of your fellow beings ye are only in the service of your God. (Mosiah 2:17)

If any of you has ever been involved in, or witnessed, some kind of disaster area during the past several decades, chances are you’ve also seen a group of people wearing bright yellow tee-shirts or jerseys with green hands depicted on them, among the first responders. Although rarely brought to the notice of the general public, these people are part of an international group of volunteers known as “Helping Hands” and are almost always there to give help to those who need it.

Helping Hands functions as part of the Humanitarian Services of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints (also known as the Mormons) and is composed mainly of members of the Church, although members of other groups have been know to aggregate themselves with the group, also wearing the typical yellow tee-shirts. The “helping hands” that you will usually meet are generally from the area in which they serve, which is why they are usually on the spot so quickly.

Helping Hands is present in Latin America, Asia, North America, Europe, Africa and the Pacific Islands and have been involved in helping clean up after earthquakes, tornadoes, floods and hurricanes. Quite often, those who have been hit are among the first to arrive, ready to lend a helping hand to the others in need. I remember when Sandy hit in 2012 that one of my friends lost everything she owned in the flooding caused by the super-storm, and yet, when volunteers were gathering to go to various of the other areas hit in New York City and New Jersey, she was one of the first in line wearing a bright yellow tee-shirt.

Helping Hands is not, however, dedicated to disaster areas. They have helped clean up public parks and woods, helped distribute food among the poor, donated blood at blood drives. When I was living in Italy, Helping Hands in the Palermo district worked together with the UNICEF; we made rag dolls – a project instigated by UNICEF – whose sales helped provide vaccinations for children in third world countries. I personally made four, and enjoyed every minute.

 

 

Picture, center right: helping hands removing trees after Hurricane Katrina. LDS

Picture, above right: Immunizations in Haiti. LDS

© “H” is for Helping Hands, Mary Purpari 2014.

“G” is for The “Green Man”

With this blog, I would like to introduce you to another of Russ Kelly’s poems, the Green Man. The green man is a mythological being, prevalent in the British Isles, who represents nature. Very often, in Pagan rites, he is represented by a young man completely adorned in greenery, as Russ has described below in his poem. The theme of the green man has been used repeatedly in architecture and other types of art forms, as well as literature through the ages. And now, I present to you the Green Man, by Russ Kelly.                                        

 THE GREEN MAN

Down by the sea, the thundering sea

where the river is flowing, its waters to end,

there stands an oak, a venerable tree

with branches that drop to the water and send

its leaves to the ocean, and leaves to the wind.

 

A leaf in the wind. Its memory brings

The wicker and mistletoe back to the tree-

A golden sickle, a man who sings

A prayer to the gods, a bright panoply

To flames that are burning, and burning below.

 

And above is the Green Man,

and below is the Green Man,

all round is the Green Man,

laughing, and dancing…

 

Dance by the tree, the Maypole Tree,

dance with the Green Man, a circle to make,

on Midsummer’s Night, or All Hallows Eve,

dance in the forests and valleys and take

the Man by his arm, the branch by its leaves…

 

And the branch is the Green Man,

and the oak is the Green Man,

all round is the Green Man,

laughing, and dancing…

© 2014 by Mary Purpari and Russ Kelly