Wednesday, October 26, 2005|
At bedtime I sat crossed-legged next to the bedlamp, quilt warm across my knees, and considered whether to read or lay down cards or just listen to the unfamiliar sounds of rain dripping from the eaves. One or two autumn houseflies made dazed, sullen circles in the air, and something large buzzed and tangled itself in the hair on the crown of my head. Thoughtlessly I ran my right hand through to flush the varmint out and immediately received a hard mean sting of wasp, the second in ten days, and to the same hand, and to in fact (what can it mean?) the same ring finger that was stung on the 16th. This time I went straight for the ice, and I didn't yelp or complain, but found the powdered clay and wetted it and put it on thick, and the pain ceased, and swelling so far is minimal. I trapped the wasp under my empty gingerade glass and released it into the rainy night. This is emphatic, this message, whatever it is. In Japan, wearing a ring on that finger means you have a significant other. Isn't (or wasn't) that the "going steady" ring finger here in the states? (When I went steady, in my junior high-school year, it was with a boy whose class ring was so big I had to wear it on a chain around my neck.) Many people wear engagement rings on the right ring finger, or transfer them there during the wedding ceremony. The first sting, last week, was squarely on the pad of that finger; it got my attention. This one was on top, right where the diamond will sit...
Does anyone go steady anymore? Am I engaged now? And is my fiance in
this world or the next? Human or insect? (And why does it have to
hurt?) |
|
The Groundhog In June, amid the golden fields, I saw a groundhog lying dead. Dead lay he; my senses shook, And mind outshot our naked frailty. There lowly in the vigorous summer His form began its senseless change, And made my senses waver dim Seeing nature ferocious in him. Inspecting close his maggots' might And seething cauldron of his being, Half with loathing, half with a strange love, I poked him with an angry stick. The fever arose, became a flame And Vigour circumscribed the skies, Immense energy in the sun, And through my frame a sunless trembling. My stick had done nor good nor harm. Then stood I silent in the day Watching the object, as before; And kept my reverence for knowledge Trying for control, to be still, To quell the passion of the blood; Until I had bent down on my knees Praying for joy in the sight of decay. And so I left; and I returned In Autumn strict of eye, to see The sap gone out of the groundhog, But the bony sodden hulk remained. But the year had lost its meaning, And in intellectual chains I lost both love and loathing, Mured up in the wall of wisdom. Another summer took the fields again Massive and burning, full of life, But when I chanced upon the spot There was only a little hair left, And bones bleaching in the sunlight Beautiful as architecture; I watched them like a geometer, And cut a walking stick from a birch. It has been three years, now. There is no sign of the groundhog. I stood there in the whirling summer, My hand capped a withered heart, And thought of China and of Greece, Of Alexander in his tent; Of Montaigne in his tower, Of Saint Theresa in her wild lament. [Richard Eberhart (1904-2005)] 9:00:02 PM  comment [] trackback []
|
|
It's raining outside. It's cold. I put together a prototype kids' section (shown below) for the sake of morale. Only a fraction of the kids' books I have in stock show there, but already passersby are stopping in to ask when we open on the basis of what they see through the plate glass. Encouraging. I'm painting the Serious bookshelves today—history and politics sections—listening still to WBAI. Today's documentary—Orwell Rolls In His Grave:
If Fahrenheit 9/11 lit a match under the Bush administration, this homemade documentary about the manipulation of the media by America's ruling elites solemnly stokes the resulting flames of angry discontent. Filmmaker Robert Kane Pappas's long-winded yet terrifyingly bleak Orwell Rolls In His Grave argues that the mainstream American media are no longer the voice of American freedom. Instead, they're part of a repressive political power structure that has uncanny parallels with the dystopian world of George Orwell's novel 1984... Let's spread the word about this film/DVD, because heaven knows the corporate-controlled media won't. 1:34:08 PM comment [] trackback []
|
|
INSPIRATION  1:05:10 PM comment [] trackback []
|
Last update: 11/2/05; 12:27:44 PM .
