If it’s Friday, it must mean leftovers . . .

If you Google “Do a Barrel Roll,” the whole screen will literally do a barrel roll.

Couldn’t post yesterday as I had to chauffeur Alexis back and forth and then try to buy some groceries, which was way harder than it needed to be. More strange dreams last night. I remembered them, and then I didn’t. Oh well . . .

A Friday ear worm for you:

Literary drunk texts by :

Document1

Not at all strange:

I love these digital collages made by Scorpion Dagger (James Kerr), who says that he creates them using northern and early Renaissance paintings:

More stuff from Ultra Facts:

And finally, from the too stupid not to be true files:

                   

Music by Madness, “Our House” (what else?)

Two of my most favorite songs . . .

Last day of Muppet Christmas Carols. I had wanted to include the “Peace Carol,” but couldn’t find any version that didn’t sound as if it was coming from a wind tunnel . . .

Where the River Meets the Sea

**********

Silent Night

“I drank coffee and read old books and waited for the year to end.” ~ Richard Brautigan, from Trout Fishing In America

“the tea smoke
and the willow
together trembling” ~ Kobayashi Issa

Internet was out until late today. I fell asleep in the wee hours of the morning and did not sleep well, awaking with a headache and heavy sinuses. Spent most of today dealing with customer service representatives. I am completely spent.

I can only offer you this . . .

My love affair with coffee is only surpassed by my much longer love affair with tea, which I began to drink when I was but a child. England, you know. Milky tea and hot bread and butter. Good times . . .

A cup of tea by tee-magazin.de

                   

A Sweetening All Around Me As It Falls

Even generous August
only a child’s scribblings
on thick black paper, in smudgeable chalk –
even the ripening tomatoes, even the roses,
blowsy, losing their fragrance of black tea.
A winter light held this morning’s apples
as they fell, sweet, streaked by one touch
of the careless brush, appling to earth.
The seeds so deep inside they carry that cold.
Is this why some choose solitude, to rise
that small bit further, unencumbered by love of earth,
as the branches, lighter, kite now a little higher
on gold air? But the apples love the earth and falling,
lose themselves in it as much as they can at first touch
and then, with time and rain, at last completely:
to be that bone-like One that shines unleafed in
winter rain,
all black and glazed with not the pendant gold of
necklaced summer but the ice-color mirroring
starlight
when the earth is lonely and dark and knows nothing
of apples.
Seed-black of the paper, seed-black of the waiting
heart—
December’s shine, austere and fragile, carves the
visible tree.
But today, cut deep in last plums, in yellow pears,
in second flush of roses, in the warmth of an hour,
now late,
as drunk on heat as the girl who long ago vanished
into green trees,
fold that loneliness, one moment, two, love, back into
your arms.

~ Jane Hirshfield

                   

Music by Maggie Siff, “Lullaby for a Soldier”

Happy Thanksgiving . . . Bonne Action de grâce . . . Feliz Día de Gracias . . . Glad tacksägelsedag . . . Herzliche Danksagung

Set up and of course, forgot to schedule to post . . .

autumn

                   

First Thanksgiving

When she comes back, from college, I will see
the skin of her upper arms, cool,
matte, glossy. She will hug me, my old
soupy chest against her breasts,
I will smell her hair! She will sleep in this apartment,
her sleep like an untamed, good object,
like a soul in a body. She came into my life the
second great arrival, after him, fresh
from the other world—which lay, from within him,
within me, Those nights, I fed her to sleep,
week after week, the moon rising,
and setting, and waxing—whirling, over the months,
in a slow blur, around our planet.
Now she doesn’t need love like that, she has
had it. She will walk in glowing, we will talk,
and then, when she’s fast asleep, I’ll exult
to have her in that room again,
behind that door! As a child, I caught
bees, by the wings, and held them, some seconds,
looked into their wild faces,
listened to them sing, then tossed them back
into the air—I remember the moment the
arc of my toss swerved, and they entered
the corrected curve of their departure.

~ Sharon Olds

                     

Nick Drake, “Blues Run the Game”