“Writers remember everything . . . especially the hurts. Strip a writer to the buff, point to the scars, and he’ll tell you the story of each small one. From the big ones you get novels. A little talent is a nice thing to have if you want to be a writer, but the only real requirement is the ability to remember the story of every scar.” ~
Sunday afternoon, very windy with dropping temperatures, 46 degrees.
We woke up to vicious wind this morning: The tire swing was soaring around the big oak tree, and the bamboo wind chimes were almost parallel to the porch. The temperatures earlier were in the mid 50s, but they have since dropped considerably.
So I was reminded of another poem, this one by Amy Lowell, another poet whose work I used to include in my literature classes. “Purple Grackles” is actually quite a long poem, so I decided to just include a few relative lines here:
I know that wind,
It blows the Equinox over the seeds and scatters them,
It rips petals from petals, and tears off half-turned leaves.
There is rain on the back of that wind.
There is magic in this and terror
And I watch an Autumn storm
Stripping the garden
Shouting black rain challenges
to an old, limp Summer
Laid down to die in the flower-beds. ~ Amy Lowell, from “Purple Grackles”
Anyway, the good news is that my ring finger actually looks like it’s beginning to heal, and the cut on my right pinky looks much better after I applied a Manuka ointment and dressed it yesterday; I also applied a bunch to my right calf, which I hadn’t realized was wounded until the day after that dog fight.If you don’t know about Manuka honey, it’s a really wonderful natural antibacterial; it is sources from New Zealand. This site has a really good description of its benefits.
That’s about all for today. Typing is still very awkward and a bit painful if I forget and use my ring finger. Here’s hoping that situation remedies soon.
More later Peace.
Music by Boy Epic, “Scars”