A friend is half one's own soul.
-Saint Augustine
Christians never say "Goodbye."
-C.S. Lewis
Tuesday, December 23
Monday, December 22
I think Hebrews 2:14 perfectly states what Christmas is about.
Because God's children are human beings-made of flesh and blood-Jesus also became flesh and blood by being born in human form. For only as a human being could he die, and only by dying could he break the power of the devil, who had the power of death...it was necessary for Jesus to be in every respect like us, his brothers and sisters, so that he could be our merciful and faithful High Priest before God. He then could offer a sacrifice that would take away the sins of the people. Since he himself has gone through suffering and temptation, he is able to help us when we are being tempted.
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"The Crown Prince of the Ages" may be my favorite Christmas carol. Fyi.
Long ago, as tiny infant came to earth
our blessed Lord, poor, and laid within a manger,
by the shepherds first adored.
While on earth He healed the sufferer,
showed the meek the path to heaven,
Then on Calvary gave His life blood
that our sins might be forgiven.
And we love our blessed Savior;
soon to earth He'll come to reign,
For He's gone to heaven before us,
but He said, "I'll come again."
See! The Eastern dawn is breaking;
earthly night will soon be o'er.
There are signs now of His coming,
He is almost at the door--
Not a humble Jewish infant to be spurned
and thrust aside, but the King, the Crown Prince
glorious, to receive a glorious bride.
He is coming, surely coming;
those who for His presence yearn,
Robed and ready to receive Him
thus shall hasten His return.
Now with hope, the gospel heeding,
let us watch and ever be
Ready for the Bridegroom's coming
when with joy His face we'll see.
Christmas angels, spread the message
that the meek and lowly One,
Now the Crown Prince of the Ages,
comes in clouds to take us home.
We are watching, waiting, longing,
struggling from earth's fetters free;
Come, Lord Jesus! Oh, come quickly:
here are hearts that long for Thee.
-F. Hadassah Harriman
Because God's children are human beings-made of flesh and blood-Jesus also became flesh and blood by being born in human form. For only as a human being could he die, and only by dying could he break the power of the devil, who had the power of death...it was necessary for Jesus to be in every respect like us, his brothers and sisters, so that he could be our merciful and faithful High Priest before God. He then could offer a sacrifice that would take away the sins of the people. Since he himself has gone through suffering and temptation, he is able to help us when we are being tempted.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
"The Crown Prince of the Ages" may be my favorite Christmas carol. Fyi.
Long ago, as tiny infant came to earth
our blessed Lord, poor, and laid within a manger,
by the shepherds first adored.
While on earth He healed the sufferer,
showed the meek the path to heaven,
Then on Calvary gave His life blood
that our sins might be forgiven.
And we love our blessed Savior;
soon to earth He'll come to reign,
For He's gone to heaven before us,
but He said, "I'll come again."
See! The Eastern dawn is breaking;
earthly night will soon be o'er.
There are signs now of His coming,
He is almost at the door--
Not a humble Jewish infant to be spurned
and thrust aside, but the King, the Crown Prince
glorious, to receive a glorious bride.
He is coming, surely coming;
those who for His presence yearn,
Robed and ready to receive Him
thus shall hasten His return.
Now with hope, the gospel heeding,
let us watch and ever be
Ready for the Bridegroom's coming
when with joy His face we'll see.
Christmas angels, spread the message
that the meek and lowly One,
Now the Crown Prince of the Ages,
comes in clouds to take us home.
We are watching, waiting, longing,
struggling from earth's fetters free;
Come, Lord Jesus! Oh, come quickly:
here are hearts that long for Thee.
-F. Hadassah Harriman
Friday, December 19
Wednesday, December 10
Waiting Room
I was in the waiting room at the dentist's office when a man walked in with two boys who looked to be around 9 and 6 years old. I stood at the counter as the receptionist, between sneezing fits, slowly checked her computer to set up another appointment for me.
The man and the boys sat down but the younger one wasn't seated for long. With a sudden movement that caught my attention, he propelled himself out of his chair and executed a perfect cartwheel in the middle of the waiting room floor.
"Wow!" I exclaimed, genuinely impressed. The boy smiled, lowered his gaze shyly and stole back to his chair. However, in a moment he was back on stage, this time rolling from a neat somersault into a handstand which he held for 30 seconds.
When I said "Very good!" he removed his hands from the floor, balancing momentarily on his head alone. This time when he stood up, he looked at me directly and grinned like a champ. I felt a bond between us. Perhaps something links a spectator who wants to be entertained and a performer who desires admiration.
Other than myself, the man and the boys, the waiting room was empty. The man, who I suppose was the boy's father, had his eyes fixed on the TV and appeared to be ignoring his son.
At the time I thought the boy was performing for me alone and I felt privileged to be the one he was performing for. Now I realize that his father was part of his intended audience. I think that is always the case with children, even if they know their parents aren't watching. They will continue to perform with heartbreaking faith and hope...for a while.
That's what I wanted to tell the man. Do not miss this opportunity. Because he is doing it for you, the show your little boy is putting on is a million times better than that Spanish soccer game on TV. In ten years, which will go by quicker than you could believe, he might tune you out like you're tuning him out now and your questions--how was school, where are you going, how are you doing--will go unanswered.
Maybe the man had a terrible toothache and could not be attentive because of his pain. Maybe circumstances beyond his control were making him depressed or discouraged. Maybe he watches his son do gymnastics ten hours a day and is tired of it. I do not want to assume or misjudge.
As I watched the scene, what I wanted was to love and affirm the boy. I wanted a device like the memory eraser in Men in Black, that I could beam at the man, his boys and the receptionist which would convince them for a few minutes that I was a safe person. When they were sufficiently beamed I would get on my knees, look the boy in the eyes, say "You are wonderful" and hug him.
Back on the floor, the little performer rocketed into a handstand and spun on his head a la break dancing. Far from wondering what was taking the receptionist so long, or what on earth she could be doing in the back room, I was absorbed in watching the boy and was sorry when the receptionist handed me the card with my appointment date and said "Have a nice day."
In the car on the way home I heard "The Little Drummer Boy". The thought of the drummer boy giving Jesus the only thing he had, his talent, made me think of the boy in the waiting room.
I can imagine him there in that familiar scene, his beautiful imp face and buzz cut hair, his missing-teeth smile lighting the place up. Gold softly gleaming, the scent of frankincense mingling with the odor of animals, manure and hay. The little boy dropping to his hands, springing up smoothly and twirling on his head. Jesus' milky black infant eyes focusing for the first time on someone other than His mother.
Was His consciousness like that of any other human baby, or did He always have the mind of God? This is something I've often wondered about the Incarnation.
If, as a baby, Jesus had seen the little gymnast from the waiting room, I wonder if the boy would have danced before His eyes as a mere motion, distracting like a baby rattle but no more than that. Or would He have looked with awareness at the boy and thought, "You are wonderful. I love you. You are why I am here."
The man and the boys sat down but the younger one wasn't seated for long. With a sudden movement that caught my attention, he propelled himself out of his chair and executed a perfect cartwheel in the middle of the waiting room floor.
"Wow!" I exclaimed, genuinely impressed. The boy smiled, lowered his gaze shyly and stole back to his chair. However, in a moment he was back on stage, this time rolling from a neat somersault into a handstand which he held for 30 seconds.
When I said "Very good!" he removed his hands from the floor, balancing momentarily on his head alone. This time when he stood up, he looked at me directly and grinned like a champ. I felt a bond between us. Perhaps something links a spectator who wants to be entertained and a performer who desires admiration.
Other than myself, the man and the boys, the waiting room was empty. The man, who I suppose was the boy's father, had his eyes fixed on the TV and appeared to be ignoring his son.
At the time I thought the boy was performing for me alone and I felt privileged to be the one he was performing for. Now I realize that his father was part of his intended audience. I think that is always the case with children, even if they know their parents aren't watching. They will continue to perform with heartbreaking faith and hope...for a while.
That's what I wanted to tell the man. Do not miss this opportunity. Because he is doing it for you, the show your little boy is putting on is a million times better than that Spanish soccer game on TV. In ten years, which will go by quicker than you could believe, he might tune you out like you're tuning him out now and your questions--how was school, where are you going, how are you doing--will go unanswered.
Maybe the man had a terrible toothache and could not be attentive because of his pain. Maybe circumstances beyond his control were making him depressed or discouraged. Maybe he watches his son do gymnastics ten hours a day and is tired of it. I do not want to assume or misjudge.
As I watched the scene, what I wanted was to love and affirm the boy. I wanted a device like the memory eraser in Men in Black, that I could beam at the man, his boys and the receptionist which would convince them for a few minutes that I was a safe person. When they were sufficiently beamed I would get on my knees, look the boy in the eyes, say "You are wonderful" and hug him.
Back on the floor, the little performer rocketed into a handstand and spun on his head a la break dancing. Far from wondering what was taking the receptionist so long, or what on earth she could be doing in the back room, I was absorbed in watching the boy and was sorry when the receptionist handed me the card with my appointment date and said "Have a nice day."
In the car on the way home I heard "The Little Drummer Boy". The thought of the drummer boy giving Jesus the only thing he had, his talent, made me think of the boy in the waiting room.
I can imagine him there in that familiar scene, his beautiful imp face and buzz cut hair, his missing-teeth smile lighting the place up. Gold softly gleaming, the scent of frankincense mingling with the odor of animals, manure and hay. The little boy dropping to his hands, springing up smoothly and twirling on his head. Jesus' milky black infant eyes focusing for the first time on someone other than His mother.
Was His consciousness like that of any other human baby, or did He always have the mind of God? This is something I've often wondered about the Incarnation.
If, as a baby, Jesus had seen the little gymnast from the waiting room, I wonder if the boy would have danced before His eyes as a mere motion, distracting like a baby rattle but no more than that. Or would He have looked with awareness at the boy and thought, "You are wonderful. I love you. You are why I am here."
Tuesday, December 9
Cheers, Darlin'
Declaring that she never drinks straight out of glasses
at restaurants, my mother sucked her complimentary
glass of wine through a straw, prompting my dad
to voice his sincere wish that he not see anyone he knew.
Fortunately, the only people we recognized at the restaurant
were some ex relatives through marriage who we don't
like anyway.
Urban Myth
According the the game Urban Myth, the following fun facts are true. I certainly hope they are.
--The state of Michigan once threatened to sue a local beaver colony $10,000 for failing to remove their dam.
--Charlie Chaplin's remains were stolen and held for ransom.
---Caucasians in Brazil were dyed blue before they were executed to conform with a law prohibiting authorities from killing "white people."
--The state of Michigan once threatened to sue a local beaver colony $10,000 for failing to remove their dam.
--Charlie Chaplin's remains were stolen and held for ransom.
---Caucasians in Brazil were dyed blue before they were executed to conform with a law prohibiting authorities from killing "white people."
Monday, December 8
Amahl and the Night Visitors
In 6th grade music class at NBCS we put on a Christmas chorale, singing carols and select songs from the opera Amahl and the Night Visitors by Gian Carlo Menotti (that just might be the most melodic name I've ever heard, btw).
Kaspar, Melchior, Balthazar:
Melchior and Balthazar:
The Mother:
Melchior:
Kaspar:
Balthazar:
The Mother (absorbed in her own thoughts):
Citrons and lemons,
Hazelnuts and camomile,
Ever since that chorale (1991!), bits of lyrics and snatches of melodies would surface in my consciousness, orbit for a while then disappear. Some of the melodies were quite beautiful. I had forgotten the title of the opera, but thanks to Google I found the cd based on the few lyrics I remembered.
I had never heard the whole thing before and was pleased to find that the opera has a wonderful message and some lovely lines.
The story is about a crippled shepherd boy, Amahl, who lives in poverty with his mother. Following the star, the three wise men stop for the night and ask to stay with Amahl and his mother. While they are sleeping, the woman attempts to steal some of their riches for her son and herself. The wise men wake up, catching her in the act. Amahl defends his mother but the kings graciously offer to let her keep the gold that was meant as a gift for the holy child. She is repentant and wishes she had something to give the child. Amahl asks the wise men to take his most prized possession, his crutch. A miracle occurs and Amahl is healed of his lameness. He asks to be allowed to visit the child and his mother and the kings agree.
My favorite parts:
Kaspar, Melchior, Balthazar:
By silent sunken lakes
the antelope leaps.
In paper painted oasis
the drunken gypsy weeps.
The hungry lion wanders,
the cobra sleeps.
How far, how far, my crystal star?
............................................................
Melchior:
Have you seen a Child
the color of wheat, the color of dawn?
His eyes are mild,
His hands are those of a King,
as King he was born.
Incense, myrrh, and gold
we bring to His side,
and the Eastern Star is our guide.
The Mother (as though to herself)
Yes, I know a child
the color of wheat, the color of dawn.
His eyes are mild,
his hands are those of a King,
as King he was born.
But no one will bring him
incense or gold,
though sick and poor
and hungry and cold.
He's my child, my son,
my darling, my own.
Melchior and Balthazar:
Have you seen a Child
the color of earth, the color of thorn?
His eyes are sad,
His hands are those of the poor,
as poor He was born.
Incense, myrrh and gold
we bring to His side,
and the Eastern Star is our guide.
The Mother:
Yes, I know a child
the color of earth, the color of thorn.
His eyes are sad,
his hands are those of the poor,
as poor he was born.
But no one will bring him
incense or gold,
though sick and poor
and hungry and cold.
He's my child, my son,
my darling, my own.
Melchior:
The Child we seek holds the seas
and the winds on His palm.
Kaspar:
The Child we seek has the moon
and the stars at His feet.
and the stars at His feet.
Balthazar:
Before Him the eagle is gentle,
the lion is meek.
The Mother (absorbed in her own thoughts):
The child I know
on his palm holds my heart.
The child I know
at his feet has my life.
He's my child, my son,
my darling, my own,
and his name is Amahl!
Kaspar, Melchior, Balthazar:
Choirs of angels hover over His roof
and sing Him to sleep.
He's warmed by breath,
He's fed by Mother
who is both Virgin and Queen.
Incense, myrrh and gold
we bring to His side,
and the Eastern Star is our guide.
.............................................................
Melchior:
Oh, woman, you can keep the gold.
The Child we seek doesn't need our gold.
On love, on love alone
He will build His Kingdom.
His pierced hand will hold no scepter.
His haloed head will wear no crown.
His might will not be built on your toil.
Swifter than lightning
He will soon walk among us.
He will bring us new life
and receive our death,
and the keys to His city
belong to the poor.
..........................................
Shepherds:
Shepherds:
Olives and quinces,
apples and raisins,
nutmeg and myrtle,
medlars and chestnuts,
this is all we shepherds can offer you.
Citrons and lemons,
musks and pomegranates,
goat cheese and walnuts,
figs and cucumbers,
this is all we shepherds can offer you.
Hazelnuts and camomile,
mignonettes and laurel,
honeycombs and cinnamon,
thyme, mint and garlic,
this is all we shepherds can offer you.
Friday, December 5
Plow
F: I haven't had that Chevy going in over a year but I went out there today, turned the key and the starter only turned over about five times, rrrr-rr-rr, you know, and then brooooomm, the engine started right up and it went running right along. I couldn't believe it.
J: I thought you couldn't drive it.
F: That's right, you can't drive it. I've got the wheel off. I'm working on the brakes.
J: Then why did you say it went running down the road?
F: NO. What I said was, after I started it up, the engine ran.
J: Oh. Good. Now we can use it.
F: Use it for what?
J: For plowing.
F: (shaking his head) We're not going to use it for plowing. We already have someone who plows the driveway.
J: Well, we could do it ourselves.
F: Are you going to spend fifteen hundred bucks on a plow? Its more cost effective to pay someone else to do it then to do it yourself. There's the plow and upkeep on the truck. Ppfff (waving his hand dismissively).
F: You can't keep that stove going and you're going to plow the driveway?!
J: I can do it.
F: Oh yeah? How are you going to attach the plow and take it off?
J: (loftily) I have friends who can do that sort of thing. They'll help me.
A: (uncontrollable laughter)
J: I thought you couldn't drive it.
F: That's right, you can't drive it. I've got the wheel off. I'm working on the brakes.
J: Then why did you say it went running down the road?
F: NO. What I said was, after I started it up, the engine ran.
J: Oh. Good. Now we can use it.
F: Use it for what?
J: For plowing.
F: (shaking his head) We're not going to use it for plowing. We already have someone who plows the driveway.
J: Well, we could do it ourselves.
F: Are you going to spend fifteen hundred bucks on a plow? Its more cost effective to pay someone else to do it then to do it yourself. There's the plow and upkeep on the truck. Ppfff (waving his hand dismissively).
A: Didn't you want to sell it?
F: Yes. That's what I'm going to do. Sell it.
J: Well, I want to use that truck to plow the driveway. After you're gone (with great emphasis).F: You can't keep that stove going and you're going to plow the driveway?!
J: I can do it.
F: Oh yeah? How are you going to attach the plow and take it off?
J: (loftily) I have friends who can do that sort of thing. They'll help me.
A: (uncontrollable laughter)
Thursday, December 4
Welcome to Snarkopolis
You're a nice guy and you have nice twinkly eyes, but I'm havin' a real hard time watching you give your class presentation. In the 20 minutes it took you to tell us what happened in Pinocchio I could have watched a fifth of the movie and it would have been a lot more enjoyable. And I'm sorry, but watching a grown man break down in tears over a cartoon is embarassing.
To be fair it was your mom's favorite cartoon, she passed away and that's hard for you. Understood. But knowing the movie is an emotional Mt. Olympus and scaling it, a Herculean task, WHY in the name of Walt Disney did you pick it for your assignment?
Not to be mean or anything...well OK, to be mean, I must add that your work on the project (though I don't think you put much effort into this, besides watching the movie) is somewhat in vain. Oh you'll get a grade, but your shot is pretty far off the target. If the target had been, say, Killington VT, then I'd say you hit a grass hut on Maui.
We were supposed create the developmental history of a fairy tale character, assessing their mental, social and physical state and make treatment recommendations; NOT summarize the plot, analyze the moral of the story and read the lyrics of favorite songs from the movie, enunciating the rhyme in each couplet. "When you wish upon a STAR, makes no difference who you ARE..." Methinks you should stick with computer programming cause liberal arts is not your forte.
And dude, your buddies are right about the Pinocchio tat. Just...don't.
To be fair it was your mom's favorite cartoon, she passed away and that's hard for you. Understood. But knowing the movie is an emotional Mt. Olympus and scaling it, a Herculean task, WHY in the name of Walt Disney did you pick it for your assignment?
Not to be mean or anything...well OK, to be mean, I must add that your work on the project (though I don't think you put much effort into this, besides watching the movie) is somewhat in vain. Oh you'll get a grade, but your shot is pretty far off the target. If the target had been, say, Killington VT, then I'd say you hit a grass hut on Maui.
We were supposed create the developmental history of a fairy tale character, assessing their mental, social and physical state and make treatment recommendations; NOT summarize the plot, analyze the moral of the story and read the lyrics of favorite songs from the movie, enunciating the rhyme in each couplet. "When you wish upon a STAR, makes no difference who you ARE..." Methinks you should stick with computer programming cause liberal arts is not your forte.
And dude, your buddies are right about the Pinocchio tat. Just...don't.
Tuesday, December 2
Thank you, Henry van Dyke
Joyful, joyful, we adore Thee, God of glory, Lord of love;Hearts unfold like flowers before Thee, opening to the sun above.
Melt the clouds of sin and sadness; drive the dark of doubt away;
Giver of immortal gladness, fill us with the light of day!
All Thy works with joy surround Thee, earth and heaven reflect Thy rays
Stars and angels sing around Thee, center of unbroken praise.
Stars and angels sing around Thee, center of unbroken praise.
Field and forest, vale and mountain, flowery meadow, flashing sea,
Singing bird and flowing fountain call us to rejoice in Thee.
Thou art giving and forgiving, ever blessing, ever blessed,
Wellspring of the joy of living, ocean depth of happy rest!
Thou our Father, Christ our Brother, all who live in love are Thine;
Teach us how to love each other, lift us to the joy divine.
Today's Words
Oscillate, undulate and vacillate. Sound so good together they should be in a song. But what would said song be about?
Monday, December 1
Famous
The river is famous to the fish.
The loud voice is famous to silence,
which knew it would inherit the earth
before anybody said so.
The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds
watching him from the birdhouse.
The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.
The idea you carry close to your bosom
is famous to your bosom.
The boot is famous to the earth,
more famous than the dress shoe,
which is famous only to floors.
The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it
and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.
I want to be famous to shuffling men
who smile while crossing streets,
sticky children in grocery lines,
famous as the one who smiled back.
I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
but because it never forgot what it could do.
-Naomi Shihab Nye
The loud voice is famous to silence,
which knew it would inherit the earth
before anybody said so.
The cat sleeping on the fence is famous to the birds
watching him from the birdhouse.
The tear is famous, briefly, to the cheek.
The idea you carry close to your bosom
is famous to your bosom.
The boot is famous to the earth,
more famous than the dress shoe,
which is famous only to floors.
The bent photograph is famous to the one who carries it
and not at all famous to the one who is pictured.
I want to be famous to shuffling men
who smile while crossing streets,
sticky children in grocery lines,
famous as the one who smiled back.
I want to be famous in the way a pulley is famous,
or a buttonhole, not because it did anything spectacular,
but because it never forgot what it could do.
-Naomi Shihab Nye
Great Boston Molasses Tragedy!!
The Boston Molasses Disaster, also known as the Great Molasses Flood and the Great Boston Molasses Tragedy, occurred on January 15, 1919, in the North End neighborhood of Boston. A large molasses tank burst and a wave of molasses rushed through the streets at an estimated 35 mph, killing 21 and injuring 150. Residents claim that on hot summer days the area still smells of molasses.Near Keany Square, at 529 Commercial Street, a huge molasses tank 50 ft tall, 90 ft in diameter and containing as much as 2,300,000 gal collapsed. Witnesses stated that as it collapsed there was a loud rumbling sound like a machine gun as the rivets shot out of the tank, and that the ground shook as if a train were passing by.
The collapse unleashed an immense wave of molasses between 8 and 15 ft high.
It took four days before rescuers stopped searching for victims; many dead were so glazed over in molasses, they were hard to recognize.
It took over 87,000 hours to remove the molasses from the cobblestone streets, theaters, businesses, automobiles, and homes. The harbor was brown with molasses until summer.
- Wikipedia
Tip of the Day
If you habitually and inexplicably set off alarms when you exit stores, try checking your clothing for anti-theft tags. One of those tags might be doing it, particularly if you remember that every time you set off an alarm you were wearing the same pair of jeans...
Friday, November 28
Dear Rat
Dear Rat,
Smack yourself for being in Warsaw on Thanksgiving.
That is all.
Affectionately,
Me
Wednesday, November 26
Good Scent in Your Hands
Being with my family, reflecting on God's goodness and baking comprises the warm feeling Thanksgiving gives me. We started baking today, my mom and I. She made a pecan and an apple pie, I made pumpkin. We'll do most of the cooking tomorrow but baking pies the day before Thanksgiving is my favorite part.Tomorrow we will be caught up in a cyclone of peeling, braising, chopping, mashing and kneading. Worrying about the internal temperature of turkeys. But today we enjoy the sunlight drenching the room and the rising and falling of Sarah Brightman's voice. Hot pumpkin seeds crackle in the cook stove. The scent of simmering apples and wood smoke spreads through the house.
My hands smell like pumpkin, freshly ground ginger and cinnamon, reminding me of this quote:
"When my grandmother cooked there was no measuring spoon or anything--it was all measured with the hand... She would use her hands to throw in the salt, even. She would say that when you spice food, use your hands so that it carries the scent on your fingers. And when a woman cooks well, they don't say, 'You are a good cook,' they say 'You have a good scent in your hands.'"
Shoba Narayan
I heart this recipe, btw.
Tuesday, November 25
Turkey shoot
Play the turkey shoot game, its lotsa fun!! I laughed the entire time--must have been the sherry--which really threw my aim off.
Thanks to Lindsay and the entire United crew who tirelessly search the internet at their employer's expense to find funny forwards, pictures and games to amuse me ;)
Thanks to Lindsay and the entire United crew who tirelessly search the internet at their employer's expense to find funny forwards, pictures and games to amuse me ;)
Monday, November 24
Promise
“But blessed are those who trust in the Lord
and have made the Lord their hope and confidence.
They are like trees planted along a riverbank,
with roots that reach deep into the water.
Such trees are not bothered by the heat
or worried by long months of drought.
Their leaves stay green,
and they never stop producing fruit."
Jer. 17: 7&8
Friday, November 21
Thursday, November 20
Wednesday, November 19
Call me Ishmael
Druey, you were right. The first paragraph of Moby Dick is fabulous.
Call me Ishmael [Ok, Ishmael]. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation [is he being facetious or serious? hilarious!]. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth [great word picture]; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul [whatta metaphor!]; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet [oh Ishmael I hear ya]; and especially whenever my hypos [hypos = stimulus] get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off [do it Ishmael, stick it to the man!!!] - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball [good on ya, violence is not the answer]. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship [its a lot less drastic]. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me [that's true, that's true].
Call me Ishmael [Ok, Ishmael]. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation [is he being facetious or serious? hilarious!]. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth [great word picture]; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul [whatta metaphor!]; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet [oh Ishmael I hear ya]; and especially whenever my hypos [hypos = stimulus] get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off [do it Ishmael, stick it to the man!!!] - then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. This is my substitute for pistol and ball [good on ya, violence is not the answer]. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship [its a lot less drastic]. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me [that's true, that's true].
Tuesday, November 18
Friday, November 14
Jesse Owens and Luz Long
American representative Jesse Owens seemed sure to win the long jump at the 1936 Olympic Games in Berlin, Germany. The year before he had jumped 26 feet, 8 1/4 inches—a record that would stand for twenty five years. As he walked to the long-jump pit, however, Owens saw a tall, blue-eyed, blond German taking practice jumps in the 26-foot range.
Owens felt nervous. He was acutely aware of the Nazis' desire to prove "Aryan superiority," especially over blacks. At this point, the tall German introduced himself as Luz Long. "You should be able to qualify with your eyes closed!" he said to Owens, referring to his two jumps.
For the next few moments the black son of a sharecropper and the white model of Nazi manhood chatted.
Then Long made a suggestion. Since the qualifying distance was only 23 feet, 5 1/2 inches, why not make a mark several inches before the takeoff board and jump from there, just to play it safe? Owens did and qualified easily.
In the finals Owens set an Olympic record and earned the second of four gold medals. The first person to congratulate him was Luz Long—in full view of Adolf Hitler. Owens never again saw Long, who was killed in World War II.
"You can melt down all the medals and cups I have," Owens later said, "and they wouldn't be a plating on the 24-carat friendship I felt for Luz Long."
-by Dr. Paul Chappell
Thursday, November 13
Ninjun
As in a ninja and an Injun combined. I thought I invented a word but alas, I did not. Curse you, urbandictionary.com!!
Monday, November 10
Wednesday, November 5
Occam's razor, skunk, and the election
I have to thank William of Occam (or Ockham) for his wonderful logic tool, the theory known as Occam's razor. I rely on it tremendously. Simply put (that's the only way I could put it), the theory is that the simplest explanation is the best one. However, the way I think of it is, the most obvious explanation is the right one.
Occam's razor, among other factors, leads me to believe that someone placed a dead skunk on our walkway last night. It is the most likely explanation for the presence of said skunk. It seems more likely than the probability that the skunk, after receiving it's injuries, dragged itself to out walkway and expired. It also seems more likely that someone put it there than that an animal dragged or carried it to our walkway and left it there.
Additionally, the animal appears to have been dead for a few days. My dad thinks it is bloated, ie decomposition has begun, which rules out the idea of an injured skunk dragging itself and dying on our doorstep.
For suspects, I'd put my money on either union goons, because they have threatened my dad in the past, or the same people who removed our political signs. Or maybe they are one and the same. Anyway....
I wonder if every McCain voter is feeling the same today; discouraged, upset, worried, fearful? I've been struggling with these feelings but God has been so good in giving me hope. He reminded me that Jesus, not the Obamanation, is my future and Jesus, not John McCain, is my hope. I have a glorious inheritance in Christ Jesus. I am a citizen of that world. Our struggle is against evil spirits and powers, not people, and they are already defeated. Jesus conquered them, saying, "It is finished."
Amen!
Occam's razor, among other factors, leads me to believe that someone placed a dead skunk on our walkway last night. It is the most likely explanation for the presence of said skunk. It seems more likely than the probability that the skunk, after receiving it's injuries, dragged itself to out walkway and expired. It also seems more likely that someone put it there than that an animal dragged or carried it to our walkway and left it there.
Additionally, the animal appears to have been dead for a few days. My dad thinks it is bloated, ie decomposition has begun, which rules out the idea of an injured skunk dragging itself and dying on our doorstep.
For suspects, I'd put my money on either union goons, because they have threatened my dad in the past, or the same people who removed our political signs. Or maybe they are one and the same. Anyway....
I wonder if every McCain voter is feeling the same today; discouraged, upset, worried, fearful? I've been struggling with these feelings but God has been so good in giving me hope. He reminded me that Jesus, not the Obamanation, is my future and Jesus, not John McCain, is my hope. I have a glorious inheritance in Christ Jesus. I am a citizen of that world. Our struggle is against evil spirits and powers, not people, and they are already defeated. Jesus conquered them, saying, "It is finished."
Amen!
Tuesday, November 4
Rumpelstiltskin
According to Wikipedia, "Some versions say that if she [the miller's daughter] failed, she would be skewered and then fricasseed like a pig".
From this moment on I will be actively looking for occasions to use the phrase skewered and fricasseed like a pig.
Also noteworthy is this line about The Three Billy Goats Gruff: "It has an 'eat-me-when-I'm-fatter' plot."
Thank you, Wiki, for comic relief on this otherwise somber day.
From this moment on I will be actively looking for occasions to use the phrase skewered and fricasseed like a pig.
Also noteworthy is this line about The Three Billy Goats Gruff: "It has an 'eat-me-when-I'm-fatter' plot."
Thank you, Wiki, for comic relief on this otherwise somber day.
Monday, November 3
AA Meeting
One of the assignments in my Chemical Dependency class was to attend an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting and write about my observations. This is part of what I wrote:
A woman got up to open the meeting and said, "Hi, I'm Lisa and I'm an alcoholic." I was impressed with the honesty and courage it takes to say that to a roomful of people, some of them strangers. Lisa couldn't know if everyone there was an alcoholic or, like me, was there to observe. It must be humbling to admit to a lot of people that one has a problem, even if everyone else has the same problem.
The first speaker was named Richard. He said one of the causes of his alcoholism is he came from a dysfunctional home. His father was an alcoholic and was physically abusive. Richard has cerebral palsy and is always in pain. He said he used to think pain was a good reason to drink but now he realizes pain is just an excuse.
Richard looked at the clock before telling the group that he had been sober for 13 hours. At first I thought he meant that he had been drinking 13 hours ago, but he went on to explain that he did not count yesterday because it was the past. Richard said he could not count on tomorrow, so all he had was today.
When he said that, the urgency of Richard's situation hit me. Between his poor health and the danger of a relapse, all he has is right now. My heart went out to him because it seemed to me that Richard is just hanging on and that's a frightening position to be in....
The speakers mentioned life in "the hall", which I take it meant AA halls, and it occurred to me that for some people, AA is like a society. Richard, the first speaker, said that he went to at least two meetings a day in different towns.
The meetings take up a lot of his time, but I guess they're like a life line for him. Also, I think that the other members might be like family to him. He mentioned that he was estranged from his family and he reaches out to his AA sponsor when he needs help. A lot of the people there seemed to know each other well and get along well. I imagine that their AA friends have replaced their drinking buddies.
At the end of the meeting we said the Lord's Prayer together, standing in a circle and holding hands. I've never done that with a group of strangers before and it made me feel bonded to them. I wonder if I were an alcoholic and were desperate for a drink, would this meeting be enough to stave off the desire. Listening to the speaker's stories of success was encouraging. Hearing about their struggle and failures was eye opening, considering that "There but by the grace of God go I."
The speakers and their stories made an impression on me. Three weeks after attending the meeting I still remember their names. I care about Richard, Chris, Lisa, Rosie and Walter. I want them to stay sober.
A woman got up to open the meeting and said, "Hi, I'm Lisa and I'm an alcoholic." I was impressed with the honesty and courage it takes to say that to a roomful of people, some of them strangers. Lisa couldn't know if everyone there was an alcoholic or, like me, was there to observe. It must be humbling to admit to a lot of people that one has a problem, even if everyone else has the same problem.
The first speaker was named Richard. He said one of the causes of his alcoholism is he came from a dysfunctional home. His father was an alcoholic and was physically abusive. Richard has cerebral palsy and is always in pain. He said he used to think pain was a good reason to drink but now he realizes pain is just an excuse.
Richard looked at the clock before telling the group that he had been sober for 13 hours. At first I thought he meant that he had been drinking 13 hours ago, but he went on to explain that he did not count yesterday because it was the past. Richard said he could not count on tomorrow, so all he had was today.
When he said that, the urgency of Richard's situation hit me. Between his poor health and the danger of a relapse, all he has is right now. My heart went out to him because it seemed to me that Richard is just hanging on and that's a frightening position to be in....
The speakers mentioned life in "the hall", which I take it meant AA halls, and it occurred to me that for some people, AA is like a society. Richard, the first speaker, said that he went to at least two meetings a day in different towns.
The meetings take up a lot of his time, but I guess they're like a life line for him. Also, I think that the other members might be like family to him. He mentioned that he was estranged from his family and he reaches out to his AA sponsor when he needs help. A lot of the people there seemed to know each other well and get along well. I imagine that their AA friends have replaced their drinking buddies.
At the end of the meeting we said the Lord's Prayer together, standing in a circle and holding hands. I've never done that with a group of strangers before and it made me feel bonded to them. I wonder if I were an alcoholic and were desperate for a drink, would this meeting be enough to stave off the desire. Listening to the speaker's stories of success was encouraging. Hearing about their struggle and failures was eye opening, considering that "There but by the grace of God go I."
The speakers and their stories made an impression on me. Three weeks after attending the meeting I still remember their names. I care about Richard, Chris, Lisa, Rosie and Walter. I want them to stay sober.
Thursday, October 30
Skater boy
As I was driving past Skater's Edge, a shop located in the heart of fabulous Manch Vegas, where skaters buy boards, accessories (extra wheels? lubricant? what does a skateboard need?) and oversized, overpriced threads resplendent with graphic designs, some young skate pup had the temerity to hold up traffic so he could get a running start for a trick he executed.Which ellicited this response from me:
Skater-boy, skater-boy skate away home.
Your homework's on fire and your iPod is gone.
It was a great trick, though.
Wednesday, October 29
Tuesday, October 28
Monday, October 27
Quite possibly my favorite poem
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
"Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!"
He took his vorpal sword in hand:
Long time the manxome foe he sought --
So rested he by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.
And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!
One, two! One, two!
And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
He went galumphing back.
"And, has thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!'
He chortled in his joy.
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
`Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe;
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.
-Jabberwocky, Lewis Carroll
Friday, October 24
Thursday, October 23
Reviewlet: A Thousand Splendid Suns
Like The Kiterunner, A Thousand Splendid Suns is a sensitive book, capable of a great scope of emotions. This is the second saddest, heaviest book I've read. As such, the story is probably a fitting tribute to Afghani women. Reading it made me intensely grateful for my country, my freedom, prosperity, all kinds of blessings, and basic human dignity. And it made me proud of American troops who are, hopefully, kicking Al-Qaeda tail.
Darn good thing the ending was slightly happier than the rest of the book, or I would have been in danger of dehydration. As it was I needed water after sobbing for a quarter of an hour.
Wednesday, October 15
Friday, October 10
Thursday, October 9
Wednesday, October 1
Welcome to Snarkopolis
Dude who asked me for directions this morning: I sort of regret taking off in the opposite direction while you were still talking, but I had a schedule to keep and you weren't paying me for my time. It took your post-hippie brain 30 seconds to formulate your question, 30 seconds to process my response and I-don't-know-how-long to find the name of the street you were looking for even though the directions were right in front of you.
Also, let's face it: you're not the safest looking guy. While your Keith Richards wannabe look might make some biker chick say "Yum", it didn't exactly inspire my confidence. That ponytail, hair bandana and giant gypsy earring? All very nice if you're dressing up as Jack Sparrow for Halloween, but October 31 is a long way off and we're even further from the summer of '69. And what was up with that furry, dead-animal-looking beaded thing hanging from your rearview mirrror? What was that, anyway? I wasn't about to get one foot closer to your rape van to find out.
Now maybe you're a perfecly lovely person who was just having a rough day. If so, lo siento, perdon, mea culpa and all that, but a lone woman 's gotta look out for herself, you know? Dude?
Also, let's face it: you're not the safest looking guy. While your Keith Richards wannabe look might make some biker chick say "Yum", it didn't exactly inspire my confidence. That ponytail, hair bandana and giant gypsy earring? All very nice if you're dressing up as Jack Sparrow for Halloween, but October 31 is a long way off and we're even further from the summer of '69. And what was up with that furry, dead-animal-looking beaded thing hanging from your rearview mirrror? What was that, anyway? I wasn't about to get one foot closer to your rape van to find out.
Now maybe you're a perfecly lovely person who was just having a rough day. If so, lo siento, perdon, mea culpa and all that, but a lone woman 's gotta look out for herself, you know? Dude?
Tuesday, September 30
Dance Like Echo Dawn
My mom and I are driving through a city looking for something down alleyways. Finally we get out and start walking, looking for it on foot. It was dark when we were in the car but it's lighter now that we're outside.
It's a big, busy city like Boston or NY. Lots of people on the sidewalks. It's evening. People are milling around and we're trying to stay together. There's this big crowd of people ahead taking up most of the road. They've been listening to a band play or something. They're a rough lot. Middle aged but wild looking with a lot of dyed hair, torn clothes and punk jewelry. Blowing smoke and loud, beery voices.
My mom and I are trying to get through the crowd. Suddenly she calls to me, says "Happy Birthday" and reaches over to hug me, but this shortish guy with Rod Stewart style black hair gets in her way and she's effectively hugging him. He grabs her and starts sweeping her along, making a joke of it for his friends to see. It's tense. I extricate my mom from him and he looks mad. We step aside. I explain to him sheepishly,
"It's my birthday Tuesday but my friends are going to be away, so my mom just wanted to say Happy Birthday with some people around, like it's a party."
The guy's face changes immediately.
"Hey, Dom!" he yells, pointing at me.
The guy named Dom comes over and grabs me and suddenly we're up on the stage. He's swinging me up in the air and back down, like an extreme dance routine. I'm weightless, being tossed around like a little toy in the bright stage lights. People gather around, taking pictures.
The closeness of the crowd makes it feel like we're inside. No, we are inside. It's changed. We're in a bar and my dad is there at the front of the crowd, filming with his camera. Dom swings me around smoothly, changing the routine. I'm mugging now, getting comfortable, smiling for the cameras and dancing in time to the music. After what seems like a long time we stop.
I thank Dom and am aware of what he looks like for the first time. He has white hair, is in his late 40's or early 50's, and is nice looking with a deeply cleft chin like Kirk Douglas. He's shirtless. I didn't notice that before but now I'm well aware of the incongruity between our appearances. I'm wearing my green Red Sox hat, grey fleece jacket and black culottes.
I ask Dom politely--feeling very odd because we'd been in such close proximity and I'm still kind of draped on him, my arm around his shoulder, sweating profusely under my fleece--I ask him if he's a dancer or if he just does this at parties?
He says, "I like to say that I can dance like Echo Dawn."
I recognize the name of an old movie and remember that I just read that exact phrase somewhere--in a personal ad on Craig's List. Yes, I just saw this guy's profile.
He continues, "I'm single--divorced. I like to stay in shape." He flexes. His muscles are defined but old mannish. His chest is narrow and seems to be caving inward.
I'm aware of my dad, looking on and feeling not-too-comfortable with me being so close to this guy, but he's also fiddling with his camera, trying to get a good shot. The flash isn't working.
I look at the camera, hold it at arms length and try to get a shot of Dom and me. Turning the camera around to look at the image, I am surprised to see that I look like I'm 14 years old and have cute, even features, looking more like a neighbor of mine than myself.
I say to Dom, "Here, why don't you try taking it? You have longer arms." But that picture doesn't come out well either. One of us is cut off.
As I'm waking up I'm still enjoying the sensation of weightlessness but I am regretting that I don't have a good picture of Dom and me.
Monday, September 29
Sweet. Very sweet.
Zachry Deputy to me 4:36 AM (4 hours ago)
i hopw to be up that way in a few months keep on the look out ZD
-------- Original Message --------
Subject: Please come to NH
Hi Paul & Zach,
I saw your show in Newmarket NH back in February. You were 100 times better than the headliner, Ryan Montbleau. I loved every minute of your show, esp. "Chicken Pot Pie". Funny songs are hard to come by. Anyway, I was delighted to find you on itunes but you're better live. So please come back to NH or even New England. I'd love to see you again. Thanks for the music!
i hopw to be up that way in a few months keep on the look out ZD
-------- Original Message --------
Subject: Please come to NH
Hi Paul & Zach,
I saw your show in Newmarket NH back in February. You were 100 times better than the headliner, Ryan Montbleau. I loved every minute of your show, esp. "Chicken Pot Pie". Funny songs are hard to come by. Anyway, I was delighted to find you on itunes but you're better live. So please come back to NH or even New England. I'd love to see you again. Thanks for the music!
Friday, September 26
Poetry x 3
Job is one of my two favorite books of the Bible. The book dishes out basic, though heavy and important questions in beautifully poetic language. The poetry is somewhat diminished in the version I'm reading right now, the New Living Translation, but what it lacks in linguistic esthetics it makes up for in plain dealing straight talk. Like this verse: "I would rather die of strangulation than go on and on like this. I hate my life. I do not want to go on living." And there it is. I like that Job wishes he had never been born, reminding me of Jimmy Stewart in It's a Wonderful Life. There have been times when I related to that, making Job one of the few biblical charaters who seems like a real person and not, well, a character.
The other night I was out walking after dark and I spooked some deer in a field. I stopped and listened to the whistling/blowing/snorting noise they make when they're alarmed or to warn other deer. As I listened to their hoofbeats thudding rythmically away, I could picture exactly how they looked in the darkness. The way they bound lightly and effortlessly, a smooth fluid rising and falling, like dolphins leaping over waves. The hoofbeats and whistling brought that picture to my mind like poetry. Auditory poetry, with sounds rather than words.
Speaking of poetry, I love Amy Lowell's "The Letter" which ironically expresses the limitations of words through...writing, of course.
Little cramped words scrawling all over
the paper
Like draggled fly's legs,
What can you tell of the flaring moon
Through the oak leaves?
Or of my uncertain window and the
bare floor
Spattered with moonlight?
Your silly quirks and twists have nothing
in them
Of blossoming hawthorns,
And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth,
virgin of loveliness
Beneath my hand.
I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart
against
The want of you;
Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,
And posting it.
And I scald alone, here, under the fire
Of the great moon.
The other night I was out walking after dark and I spooked some deer in a field. I stopped and listened to the whistling/blowing/snorting noise they make when they're alarmed or to warn other deer. As I listened to their hoofbeats thudding rythmically away, I could picture exactly how they looked in the darkness. The way they bound lightly and effortlessly, a smooth fluid rising and falling, like dolphins leaping over waves. The hoofbeats and whistling brought that picture to my mind like poetry. Auditory poetry, with sounds rather than words.
Speaking of poetry, I love Amy Lowell's "The Letter" which ironically expresses the limitations of words through...writing, of course.
Little cramped words scrawling all over
the paper
Like draggled fly's legs,
What can you tell of the flaring moon
Through the oak leaves?
Or of my uncertain window and the
bare floor
Spattered with moonlight?
Your silly quirks and twists have nothing
in them
Of blossoming hawthorns,
And this paper is dull, crisp, smooth,
virgin of loveliness
Beneath my hand.
I am tired, Beloved, of chafing my heart
against
The want of you;
Of squeezing it into little inkdrops,
And posting it.
And I scald alone, here, under the fire
Of the great moon.
Thursday, September 25
Tuesday, September 23
Manpoo
Why oh why, I wonder, was "manpoo", as in man shampoo, the first word to cross my mind upon waking this morning? Oh mysterious human brain, wonder of the universe...
Still, something tells me I'll forget to ask God about this one.
Still, something tells me I'll forget to ask God about this one.
Friday, September 19
Thursday, September 18
Quoth She
“A wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other” -Charles Dickens
Wednesday, September 17
From "The Ninety and Nine"
But none of the ransomed ever knew How deep were the waters crossed,
Nor how dark was the night that the Lord passed thro'
Ere He found His sheep that was lost:
Out in the desert He heard its cry-
Sick, and helpless, and ready to die.
But all through the mountians, thunder-riven,
And up from the rocky steep,
There rose a glad cry to the gate of heaven
"Rejoice! I have found My sheep! "
And the angels echoed around the throne,
"Rejoice! for the Lord brings back His own!"
-by E.C. Clephane
Tuesday, September 16
Welcome to Snarkopolis
Genius on the bike: that is the worst use of a helmet I can think of. What earthly good is it doing back there? What is it, some pricey little biker decorative accessory? Or wait, lemme guess. If you feel the bike start to tip over, or seconds before some car t-bones you, you'll what, grab the helmet with lightning speed and put it on your head? Riiiight.
I can think of several good uses for your helmet if you're not gonna wear it to protect your frangible, brittle cranium and the ooey gooey all-important brain I assume you've got (though I wouldn't bet on it).
1) planter for seedlings
2) kitty litter helmet
3) ash tray
4) Darth Vader costume
5) for anything where you'd normally use a bowl. Chips & dip, cereal, popcorn, miso soup
6) Uncle Vinnie's ashes
7) stick some flowers on it and wear it to the Ascot races, stick some mosquito netting on it and wear it on safari, or slap some glitter on it and wear it to Mardi Gras
8) paint it green and let your kid use it for a science project, like the base of a volcano or a mountain
I could go on. Or you could just use the helmet for what its intended for: keeping you from being admitted to the nursing home at age 35!!!
The Cranberries
There were zillions of these on top of Mt. Moosilauke
My dad found these while he was fishing. He turned them into the best sauce I've ever tasted.
Friday, September 12
Hair of the Dog
Holy smoke, I'm learning some frightening facts about alcohol in my Chemical Dependency class. Alcohol is a POISON!!! OK, probably everyone but me knew that. It is toxic--as in "intoxicated"--but our bodies can tolerate it in small doses. Ether, the substance that makes alcohol um, alcoholic, used to be used to knock people out for surgeries. That's why, if you drink too much, you'll go unconscious. Aaannnddd, if you drink waaayy too much, you can knock your brain unconscious, a condition commonly referred to as "death."
Really...scary... Suffice it to say that next time I hanker for a little nip o' the hair o' the dog I'm going to have second thoughts. Maybe 3rd & 4th thoughts, too.
Thursday, September 11
Castellar
Dear Castellar De N'Hug,
I'm writing to tell you I miss you. There's so much I want say, but the words come to my fingers reluctantly. My heart is unwilling to return to the place it made for you. It did the best it could, on the plane, to patch the hole, walling in cobble stones and ringing church bells and splashing waterfalls like Montresor in "The Cask of Amontillado". But my eyes were not fooled. They ran over and over the picture of you, your green hillsides rising peak after peak. They lingered on your flesh colored rock faces and grottos, your mysterious dark caves.
Foolish eyes, I knew how wayward they would be. Denying them a last look at you, I left in the early morning before the sun lit your stones. But flying away from you, irrevocably gone, my eyes knew they were safe from censure and indulged in their watery ritual. I pretended to read my book. Nearby passengers cast sideways glances at me; in turns curious, then sympathetic. As I continued to cry they politely ignored me, guessing I had left a great love behind.
I lost your gift to me, the honey. The jar with the comb, suspended and shining like a jewel, the walnuts soaked in honey, and the jar of the palest honey I've ever seen, made from the wildflowers on your hills. All gone. I carried them in my bag to keep the glass from breaking and forgot, forgot. I had to throw them away. I cursed every Muslim in the world for the security regulations but really, I had only myself to blame.
I feel like I should apologize to you. I was careless with a part of you. Three jars of your essence.
But maybe you should apologize to me. You've ruined me. I used to think I was surrounded by beauty, but now my world lies darkly in the shadow of your memory.
The longer I write, the more you come back to me. The air smelling of thyme, children's voices rolling through the canyon, joining the river, the bells of hidden cows tinkling high on the hills above.
You will not remember me. People will continue to come and go through your streets as they have for 700 years but you will remain unchanged.
As you should be.
I'm writing to tell you I miss you. There's so much I want say, but the words come to my fingers reluctantly. My heart is unwilling to return to the place it made for you. It did the best it could, on the plane, to patch the hole, walling in cobble stones and ringing church bells and splashing waterfalls like Montresor in "The Cask of Amontillado". But my eyes were not fooled. They ran over and over the picture of you, your green hillsides rising peak after peak. They lingered on your flesh colored rock faces and grottos, your mysterious dark caves.
Foolish eyes, I knew how wayward they would be. Denying them a last look at you, I left in the early morning before the sun lit your stones. But flying away from you, irrevocably gone, my eyes knew they were safe from censure and indulged in their watery ritual. I pretended to read my book. Nearby passengers cast sideways glances at me; in turns curious, then sympathetic. As I continued to cry they politely ignored me, guessing I had left a great love behind.
I lost your gift to me, the honey. The jar with the comb, suspended and shining like a jewel, the walnuts soaked in honey, and the jar of the palest honey I've ever seen, made from the wildflowers on your hills. All gone. I carried them in my bag to keep the glass from breaking and forgot, forgot. I had to throw them away. I cursed every Muslim in the world for the security regulations but really, I had only myself to blame.
I feel like I should apologize to you. I was careless with a part of you. Three jars of your essence.
But maybe you should apologize to me. You've ruined me. I used to think I was surrounded by beauty, but now my world lies darkly in the shadow of your memory.
The longer I write, the more you come back to me. The air smelling of thyme, children's voices rolling through the canyon, joining the river, the bells of hidden cows tinkling high on the hills above.
You will not remember me. People will continue to come and go through your streets as they have for 700 years but you will remain unchanged.
As you should be.
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