“If I had not immersed myself in books, in stories and legends, in newspapers, in reports, if everything communicable had not grown up in me, I should have been a nonentity, a collection of uncomprehended events.” ~ Ingeborg Bachmann, from The Thirtieth Year: Stories

Multi-hyphenate Austrian writer Ingeborg Bachmann

Saturday afternoon, sunny and warm, 88 degrees.

Today is supposed to be the last day for a while in which temperatures approach 90. That’s a good thing. I need to get back into the habit of walking the property, and because of my weird, new reaction to bug bites, I’m looking forward to the cooling temperatures and the reduction of no-see-ums buzzing and biting me.

As today is the last day of August, I thought that I’d share this passage from Austrian poet, essayist, lecturer, and author Ingeborg Bachmann. Bachmann was a member of the literary circle Gruppe 47 or Group 47. To read her biography, go here.

August! There they were, the days of iron made red-hot in the forge. The times resounded.

The beaches were besieged and the sea no longer rolled forward its armies of waves, but feigned exhaustion. deep and blue.

On the grill, in the sand,  roasted, moiré: the easily corruptible flesh of man. Before the sea, among the dunes: the flesh.

He was afraid because the summer squandered itself so. Because this meant that autumn would soon come. August was full of panic, full of the compulsion to snatch at life and hurry to start living.”

~ Ingeborg Bachmann, from The Thirtieth Year: Stories


Music by John Prine, “Summer’s End”


A Kind Of Loss

Used together: seasons, books, a piece of music.
The keys, teacups, bread basket, sheet and a bed.
A hope chest of words, of gestures, brought back, used, used up.
A household order maintained. Said. Done. And always a head was there.
I’ve fallen in love with winter, with a Viennese septet, wiht summer.
With Village maps, a mountain nest, a beach and a bed.
Kept a calender cult, declared promises irrevocable,
bowed before something, was pious to a nothing

(-to a folded newspaper, cold ashes, the scribbled piece of paper) ,
fearless in religion, for our bed was the church.

From my lake view arose my inexhaustible painting.
From my balcony I greeted entire peoples, my neighbors.
By the chimney fire, in safety, my hair took on its deepest hue.
The ringing at the door was the alarm for my joy.

It’s not you I’ve lost,
but the world.

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

The wit and wisdom of Meryl Streep on the insiduousness of sexism in our society:

imageimage

Wordless Wednesdays . . .

Truly, I have no words.

“When I stand upright in the wind, | My bones turn to dark emeralds.” ~ James Wright, from “The Jewel”

American Poet James Wright

Two for Tuesday: James Wright

Tuesday afternoon, cloudy and cool, 71 degrees.

It’s starting to feel like fall, which is a bit unnerving. It seems that the seasons change rather quickly here on the ridge. I mentioned this a few months ago when Corey and I were wondering why we weren’t seeing all of the green of spring, and then less than a week later, we were surrounded by green: the trees were covered in leaves, and buds were blooming everywhere you looked. Now, we’re already seeing the leaves turn on certain trees, the birches, I think.

Once again, I wish that I had some extra cash so that I could work on refinishing cabinets and furniture, but of course, there is none of that, at least not yet. I wish that my other mother were still around as I desperately need to cover the couch in a fabric that is dog and goat proof, if such a thing exists. She was so good at that.

I had one of those dreams last night in which I was back at the middle school. I don’t know why I continue to dream about that place and the people in it. The kids I taught would all be grown with their own kids, or in jail, or dead. I know that sounds like a horrible thing to opine, but truly, I have no doubts that some of those kids are in jail, one in particular who scared the crap out of me, and he was only 12.

Anyway, I was back there looking for a book that I had donated by mistake. Weird, huh?

Today’s Two for Tuesday features works by Pulitzer-Prize-winning poet James Wright (December 13, 1927March 25, 1980), who was phenomenal; he could say so much about loneliness and isolation in very few words, and he was masterful in closing a poem. Wright, who was born in Martin’s Ferry, Ohio, suffered from alcoholism and manic depression; he died as a result of tongue cancer.

Mari introduced me to Wright years ago, and “Lying in a Hammock” (below) remains one of my favorites and is surpassed in my mind only by “A Blessing.” I can relate deeply to the last line of “Hammock.” His posthumous book of collected works, Above the River (1992) is a prized possession that, thankfully, never made it into storage but always had a reserved spot on my desk. I remember exactly where I bought it: in a bookstore in Charlottesville, VA after having lunch; Corey, the boys, and I were in the mountains for a fall hike. When I finally find the box in which it was packed, it will be like Christmas all over again.

To see a good biography, go here or here. In the summer 1975 issue, he was featured in The Paris Review‘s “Art of Poetry (No. 19), in which Wright declared that “poetry can keep life itself alive.”


Lying in a Hammock at William Duffy’s Farm in Pine Island, Minnesota

Over my head, I see the bronze butterfly,
Asleep on the black trunk,
blowing like a leaf in green shadow.
Down the ravine behind the empty house,
The cowbells follow one another
Into the distances of the afternoon.
To my right,
In a field of sunlight between two pines,
The droppings of last year’s horses
Blaze up into golden stones.
I lean back, as the evening darkens and comes on.
A chicken hawk floats over, looking for home.
I have wasted my life.

Northern Pike

All right. Try this,
Then. Every body
I know and care for,
And every body
Else is going
To die in a loneliness
I can’t imagine and a pain
I don’t know. We had
To go on living. We
Untangled the net, we slit
The body of this fish
Open from the hinge of the tail
To a place beneath the chin
I wish I could sing of.
I would just as soon we let
The living go on living.
An old poet whom we believe in
Said the same thing, and so
We paused among the dark cattails and prayed
For the muskrats,
For the ripples below their tails,
For the little movements that we knew the crawdads were making
under water,
For the right-hand wrist of my cousin who is a policeman.
We prayed for the game warden’s blindness.
We prayed for the road home.
We ate the fish.
There must be something very beautiful in my body,
I am so happy.


Laura Marling, “What He Wrote”

“At every moment of our lives we all have one foot in a fairy tale and the other in the abyss.” ~ Paul Coelho, from Eleven Minutes

Image result for “We are travelers on a cosmic journey,stardust,swirling and dancing in the eddies and whirlpools of infinity. Life is eternal. We have stopped for a m


Today is the birthday of author Paul Coelho (1947), Stephen Fry (1957) author, actor, and comedian, John Green (1977) author, and one of my favorite gingers, Rupert Grint (1988).

From John Green’s Looking for Alaska:

. . . we had to forgive to survive in the labyrinth. There were so many of us who would have to live with things done and things left undone that day. Things that did not go right, things that seemed okay at the time because we could not see the future. If only we could see the endless string of consequences that result from our smallest actions. But we can’t know better until knowing better is useless. . . .

Before I got here, I thought for a long time that the way out of the labyrinth was to pretend that it did not exist, to build a small, self-sufficient world in a back corner of the endless maze and to pretend that I was not lost but home. But that only led to a lonely life accompanied only by the last words of the already-dead, so I came here looking for a Great Perhaps . . .

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

Stop the romaine lettuce proliferation in our society. NOW!

“My head is bloody, but unbowed.” ~ William Ernest Henly, from “Invictus

Friday afternoon, cloudy and cooler, more storms, 77 degrees.

Well the appointment yesterday went much better than the first. They’re checking into my request for Aimovig, and if for some reason it doesn’t get approved, I’m going to try Botox again. I had really hoped that I’d outgrow my migraines, you know, like you outgrow acne, but not so much. The heat and humidity always does me in, and the other day I just felt like crawling into a cave somewhere and never coming back out.

Anyway, this is day three of this particular episode, and I still have that lingering tightness around my skull. I’m hoping that’s how it stays and that the intense pain doesn’t decide to rear its ugly head again.

Here’s a weird collection for you—born on August 23:

  • Keith Moon, drummer for The Who (1946-1978)
  • Barbara Eden, American actress, I Dream of Jeannie (1931)
  • Park Chan Wook, South Korean film director, Oldboy (1963)
  • Henry Lee Lucas, serial killer (1936-2001), who was born in Blacksburg, VA (didn’t know this tidbit)
  • River Phoenix, American actor, Stand by Me (1970-1993)
  • William Ernest Henly, British Poet, “Invictus” (1849-1903)

Enjoy. More later. Peace.


You have to appreciate advertising with a sense of humor:

Is it weird that I’d buy this?

The Western Kansan, Leoti, Kansas, December 14, 1893

Speaking of bathing . . . What do you mean you want soap?

I just don’t know what to say . . .

The San Francisco Examiner, California, August 10, 1913

Man, I love Patton Oswalt:

This is just insane:

Yep, I went there:

A forward-thinking little girl:

Vancouver Daily World, British Columbia, June 27, 1921

And finally, there’s this:

 

Quick Update . . .

Tuesday morning, cloudy with approaching storms, 82 degrees.

I have an appointment in Abingdon today with the Neurologist. It couldn’t have come at a better time considering I had one of the worse episodes I’ve had in a very long time and am still feeling the effects. Here’s hoping that it goes better than the last one in which she spent most of the time telling me what she could not  do for me.

Here. Have some Tennessee Whiskey. I wouldn’t mind having some myself.


Music by Keke Wyatt, “Tennessee Whiskey” cover