The Battle of Winterfell:
Music from “Game of Thrones: Winter is Here,” by Ramin Djawadi
Music from “Game of Thrones: Winter is Here,” by Ramin Djawadi
Man . . . I missed National Grouch Day (October 15). So perturbed I missed the perfect excuse for my demeanor ………
On one of the most beautiful and oldest parabolic dunes in Juodkrantė, Lithuania, the forest is alive with a vast array of fairy-tale creatures, witches, demons, kings, princesses, fisherman and devils. Known as the Hill of Witches (Raganų kalnas), this public trail through the woods takes visitors on a trip through the most well-known legends and stories in Lithuanian folk history.
This year and month mark the 125th anniversary of the reign of terror that the “Jack the Ripper” murders held over the world. Jack the Ripper is the best-known name given to an unidentified and notorious Victorian murderer who became the first internationally known serial killer. He was active in the largely impoverished areas in and around the Whitechapel district of London in 1888. His name originated in one of several letters written by someone claiming to be the murderer. Within the crime case files as well as journalistic accounts, the killer was known as “the Whitechapel Murderer” as well as “Leather Apron”. The letters were sent in September and October of 1888 and are believed to be written by Jack the Ripper himself, though scholars debate over their authenticity.
Friday afternoon. Partly cloudy and warmer, 55 degrees.
Honestly, I don’t know how far I’ll get today. I want to write, but I don’t know what to say. I’m sad, but I’m okay. In other words, it’s one of those days in which my mind and my heart are battling, and I have no idea if I’ll reach some kind of accord or if I will just have to give one over to the other and be done with it. In the meantime, I’m eating Junior Mints very slowly, making each one last for minutes as opposed to seconds, as if savoring such a sugary treat might help me to find my way, or perhaps, I’m just enjoying the chocolate.
At the moment, “When the Morning Comes” is playing, and its slow melody is working on my heart, leading me to believe more and more that this is not a good idea, this attempt to post, to write something coherent, to put something out here, this, here, now.
Perhaps I should put my playlist on pause and go take a shower . . .
Sunday afternoon. Rainy and mild, 60 degrees.
So, no. I never did get back to this post on Friday, nor did I get back to it yesterday. I probably wouldn’t have gotten back to it today had I not been bored with playing spider solitaire. Don’t ask.
The roast is in the oven. My mother is making me cook Easter dinner. Truly. She bought a hen and a roast and then asked me which one I wanted to cook for Easter . . . both? Bear in mind that I did not ask her to buy either. I don’t really do Easter. Don’t ask me why. But today, I’m doing Easter. Whatever.
Perhaps my ornery outlook today can be traced back to my mother’s assumptions: she buys something, and I shall cook it. I do not remember entering into this agreement at any time . . . ever. What gives?
Don’t get me wrong. I can cook. Quite well, actually. And sometimes, I feel like cooking, but not often. Once I go through the preparation and cooking stages, I almost always have nothing left for the eating stage. I’m over it all by that point. Of course, with Corey gone, I do have to cook more than usual, but we are a very casual household, and more often than not, dinner is a catch-as-catch-can affair.
But not today.
I got several comments on the Camus passage that I posted the other day. I don’t know a lot about Camus, and I don’t often use his words, but his “Falsely Yours” epistle touched something in me. Perhaps it was the absurdity of it, and his acknowledgement of the absurdity of it with his closing. I don’t know. “Should I kill myself or have a cup of coffee?” strike me as patently absurd, kind of like a poem I taught in one of my literature classes—of course the title and poet escape me now—in which the speaker, a woman is writing a massively long suicide letter. The poem ends with her watching her sleeping child.
I used to present the poem to the class with the following question: Is it really a suicide note?
My answer was no, that the woman was writing to exorcise her demons, and the writing itself helped her to get past her feelings of despair. Watching her child sleeping peacefully reassured her that life was worth living.
I kind of saw Camus’s question in the same way. Who, in a serious contemplation of suicide, would reduce it to a choice between coffee or death?
I’ve been watching “Game of Thrones” recently. Corey downloaded seasons 1 and 2 for me. I’m really enjoying the dramatization of Martin’s saga. My favorite character in the show is also my favorite character in the books: Tyrion, the dwarf son of Tywin Lannister. The actor playing the part, Peter Dinklage, has captured the essence of Tyrion so well.
I’m on season 2. Season 3 premiers on HBO tonight. I don’t have HBO. Oh well. I’ll just have to wait until it’s available for download or there is a DVD set. But watching it does make me want to go back and reread, which is a sort of predicament for me. Martin is currently writing book 6. I finished book 5 a few months ago, and I felt then that I probably should have reread books 1-4 before embarking on book 5. So do I postpone rereading the books until right before book 6 hits the stands, or do I reread now and possibly reread then?
Decisions . . . decisions.
I did finish a really good book by Stephen Dobyns Friday night called The Church of Dead Girls. Dobyns is one of those rare writers who is equally proficient in prose and poetry. This particular book was one of my thrift store finds, and it was worth all of the pennies that I spent on it and many more. If you like murder mysteries like I do, it’s a definite must-read.
Last night was quite a restless night. My little boy dog Alfie is having problems again. I’m giving him the pain medicine that the vet prescribed, but I really wish that he would let me put medicine on the sores on his face. Trying to do so is like asking to be bitten.
You know how some people can be around any dog without any problems whatsoever? My friend Mari is like that. I mean, I love dogs and dogs love me, but dogs who have any kind of finicky disposition can sense right away that I am conflicted about them. They know that they can take advantage of me, and they do. Alfie knows that if he growls and bares his teeth that I won’t come at him with medicine for his face, and I really don’t know how to go about it in any other way. After all, this is the dog that the vet diagnosed as having canine rage syndrome.
I need the dog whispering guy, you know, Cesar Milan? He is too cool. He would know what to do. And then after he whispered Alfie, he could whisper me and tell me how to calm myself, but I don’t think he people whispers.
Speaking of dogs, Tillie is beside herself because we haven’t gone outside to play yet, and no matter how many times I tell her that it’s muddy and rainy out, she will not desist. Seriously, this dog tries to climb into my lap when I’m sitting her at the computer.
More later. Peace.
Music by The Civil Wars, “Kingdom Come”
Days in Late March
Days move along in one direction
faces in the opposite.
Uninterruptedly they borrow each other’s light.
Many years later it is difficult
to determine which were the days
and which were the faces …
And the distance between the two things
feels more unreachable
day by day and face by face.
It is this I see in your face
these bright days in late March.
~ Henrik Norbrandt, trans. Thom Saterlee