Saturday morning

Borrowed words for thinking about things:

I love love this poem.

Instructions

by Neil Gaiman

Touch the wooden gate in the wall you never

saw before.

Say "please" before you open the latch,

go through,

walk down the path.

A red metal imp hangs from the green-painted

front door,

as a knocker,

do not touch it; it will bite your fingers.

Walk through the house. Take nothing. Eat

nothing.

However, if any creature tells you that it hungers,

feed it.

If it tells you that it is dirty,

clean it.

If it cries to you that it hurts,

if you can,

ease its pain.

From the back garden you will be able to see the

wild wood.

The deep well you walk past leads to Winter's

realm;

there is another land at the bottom of it.

If you turn around here,

you can walk back, safely;

you will lose no face. I will think no less of you.

Once through the garden you will be in the

wood.

The trees are old. Eyes peer from the under-

growth.

Beneath a twisted oak sits an old woman. She

may ask for something;

give it to her. She

will point the way to the castle.

Inside it are three princesses.

Do not trust the youngest. Walk on.

In the clearing beyond the castle the twelve

months sit about a fire,

warming their feet, exchanging tales.

They may do favors for you, if you are polite.

You may pick strawberries in December's frost.

Trust the wolves, but do not tell them where

you are going.

The river can be crossed by the ferry. The ferry-

man will take you.

(The answer to his question is this:

If he hands the oar to his passenger, he will be free to

leave the boat.

Only tell him this from a safe distance.)

If an eagle gives you a feather, keep it safe.

Remember: that giants sleep too soundly; that

witches are often betrayed by their appetites;

dragons have one soft spot, somewhere, always;

hearts can be well-hidden,

and you betray them with your tongue.

Do not be jealous of your sister.

Know that diamonds and roses

are as uncomfortable when they tumble from

one's lips as toads and frogs:

colder, too, and sharper, and they cut.

Remember your name.

Do not lose hope — what you seek will be found.

Trust ghosts. Trust those that you have helped

to help you in their turn.

Trust dreams.

Trust your heart, and trust your story.

When you come back, return the way you came.

Favors will be returned, debts will be repaid.

Do not forget your manners.

Do not look back.

Ride the wise eagle (you shall not fall).

Ride the silver fish (you will not drown).

Ride the grey wolf (hold tightly to his fur).

There is a worm at the heart of the tower; that is

why it will not stand.

When you reach the little house, the place your

journey started,

you will recognize it, although it will seem

much smaller than you remember.

Walk up the path, and through the garden gate

you never saw before but once.

And then go home. Or make a home.

And rest.

Borrowed images for even further imaginings:

Friday morning

Thinking about things:

Southern Gardens

Paul Klee

1936

Lots of geography here. And a noteworthy and ambiguous perspective. Looking down on it all and looking across to the horizon. And those mostly green and rust-red tree-like images as though they have found their way on their own.

Everything is right up next to everything. Leaning in--one on the other. Even so, each prominent and looking happy to be just where it is. And that would include those six muted brown and green squares up north and to the west and that lone green square in the southeast. This must be a family of sorts.

Wednesday morning

Thinking about things:

Here is a fable from a primer written by Leo Tolstoy. Tolstoy wrote these fables for peasant children. The collection was published in 1872. This one tells of fear and shame and consequences. It also about the possibility of being brave--of being brave even though it is really really hard to do so.

The Duck and the Moon

by Leo Tolstoy

A duck was once swimming along the river looking for fish.

The whole day passed without her finding a single fish.

When night came she saw the moon reflected on the water

and thinking it was a fish she dove down to catch it.

The other ducks saw her and they all made fun of her.

From that day the duck was so ashamed and so timid

that even when she did see a fish under water

she would not try to catch it,

and before long she died of hunger.

[Second Reader 1872]

From Fables and Fairy Tales

Tuesday morning

Thinking about things: boundaries and barriers and awarenesses and a bit of bravery

a chronology of ideas: 1. a sentence given to me by one of my graduate students last evening at the end of class: MEJOR SOLA QUE MAL ACOMPAÑADA. [BETTER ALONE THAN IN BAD COMPANY.] 2. a sentence from a card I have propped up on my mantelpiece that I took a look at when I got home from my class last evening because I had mentioned it to my student: QUIT WICKED COMPANY. 3. a sentence on a card that I also mentioned to my student that resides in a box of notes I keep on the mantlepiece next to the propped up card: BE NOT FORGETFUL TO ENTERTAIN STRANGERS: FOR THEREBY SOME HAVE ENTERTAINED ANGELS UNAWARES. [HEBREWS 13.1]. 4.Chronology and geography have come together here. I think Bakhtin would be happy to see this. 5. I will take my cards to class tomorrow to show my student.

Wednesday morning

Thinking about today and how it will be. With this adored image I have kept in waiting for quite a while. [I love how these kept images of mine seem to find their places on their own. Like unexpected gifts. Like sudden remembrances.]

Kindnesses abound amid difficulties and worries. Some of us [I] want to keep track of the kind persons who [bravely] show up and present themselves and their words.

Jean-Jacques Sempé

Here is one now who has brought some [beloved] blue flowers to this woman who stoops gracefully as she fusses with things in her well cared for nursery. He stands at the doorsill of this shelter of hers. Of this world of unruffled red. He appears to be intent on delivering this gift of himself to her. Others have already brought words and sweetness that drift and turn in her head and cause her to think of that which is beyond/outside of this safe house [of her own making] as she busies herself with important work to be done. Indeed, his blue flowers will contrast unexpectedly with the red ones.

Thinking about dear Mary Ann Kassier and sweet sweet Emily Kassier.

Cover from The New Yorker February 6, 2006 [A fine example of all lined up for safety.]

Saturday morning

Thinking about how this day will be:

Regarding Gorey’s young poet and the bear and their kindnesses exchanged and the book carrying young man and the notion of a day's common labor.

Trying to reinvest in the idea of placing trust in an other and standing with an intentional fortitude to bring about an amount of sweetness amid a day’s journeying.

And further puzzling over this originally calligraphed sentence of mine from a while back that came to me unannounced [just now]: Although she has a consequentialness about her, this particular lemon is quite lovely.

Remembering this idea of consequentialness and how it is quite like a doctrine of morality that posits an action is to be judged solely by its consequences.

And placing these words and their known and unknown meanings in the fore of my mind as a safeguard for my travels and the uncommon labor of this day.

Finally, hoping for an understandable reordering of it all.

The Stag

C.F.A. Voysey

[Voysey's lace panel was originally produced in Scotland in the early 1900s.]

Sunday morning

A lost and found post posted today:

This Edward Gorey image seems just right for thinking about on this cloudy Sunday just past noon.

This young man looks to have the same face as Gorey's "Future Unremembered Poet of the Seventeenth Century [who] accepts a Christmas Cookie from the Great Veiled Bear" and who, just so you know, happened to be on skates. In that situation, he was brave and trusting of the bear [who quite outsized him] and received some sweetness for his trouble. [March 3, 2011]

In this setting, though, the young man appears to be on a mission of his own. It is as though he has read the artist's signage with its hints of encouragement and urgency: SO MANY BOOK; SO LITTLE TIME. [Whose words are these, the young man almost utters.] And so, he is about to carry away books [very large and very thick books] for reading and thinking about--[perhaps for just plain enjoying]. These mighty volumes, it is true, will need lots of time for poring over.

I must say, too. the young man's face does carry a bit of apprehension [is that what it is?] about unknown tensions or worries. But again, I want to point out, he stands ready to go--with the weight of the books balanced rightly [albeit on the heavy side for his slender shoulders] for traveling.

Ah, but this is it: [great amounts of] hoped for joy amidst a day's common labor.

Saturday morning

I saw The Druid and Atlantic Theater Company's production of Martin McDonagh's The Cripple of Inishmaan last night at Zellerbach Playhouse with my dear friend Glynda. Oh my goodness. A joyous and relentless and heartrending theatrical masterpiece!

Billy Claven

performed by Ruaidhri Conroy

Here is an excerpt from Ben Brantley's New York Times review that captures a bit about this mighty play's portrayal of a stark world of cruelty and endurance and momentary [seemingly unimagined] kindnesses:

[This is a play] about the excitement-starved inhabitants of Inishmaan. Notable among them is Cripple Billy, an overgrown orphan whose chief hobby has hitherto been staring at cows.

His body a study in conflicting angles, as if contorted by unseen winds, Cripple Billy moves athwart through a world where most people are either ramrod vertical or flat on their backs. The other villagers on the island off western Ireland where Billy lives are fond of pointing out how his twisted form sets him apart from them, and his name is seldom pronounced without the distancing epithet of ''Cripple.'

But as played by a 19-year-old from Dublin named Ruaidhri Conroy, the title character of Martin McDonagh's ''The Cripple of Inishmaan,'' which opened last night at the Joseph Papp Public Theater, comes to seem less like the outcast of the island than its very essence. There's a resonant emotional poetry in Billy's misshapen body: it registers in the struggle that seems to accompany every step he takes, in the yearning forward slope of his shoulders. It is the form of frustration made flesh, and of longings that can never be assuaged. Little wonder that his fellow townspeople, themselves shaped by discontent and a nagging sense of social inferiority to the world at large, keep insisting on the boy's otherness.

But character is not a fixed entity in Inishmaan. “Cripple” is driven by the inconsistencies of human behavior, which echo this equally sad and funny play’s whiplash reversals of mood and fortune. The cast members admirably accept and convey their characters’ paradoxical nature without making a big deal of it. This is essential. For while you would assume that everyone in Inishmaan would know everyone else’s business inside and out, people can still surprise one another. For lack of much better to do, they hoard secrets; they misrepresent themselves; and oh, how they love to lie.

Or should we say tell stories?

Ah, but that is it. Telling lies. Telling stories about themselves and others. And keeping secrets. And for whose good? And being cruel and hurtful and indifferent and hurt and damaged by it all. And then, without notice, an unselfish gift of gentleness.

Monday Morning

Liège, quai de Maestricht by Gerard Michel

[pen and watercolors]

Horizontality.

The possibility of order and beauty.

Brick and stone and cement walls, roofs, chimneys, windows, doors.

Each properly stacked next to the other. Each leaning on the other for safety.

Verticality achieved/attained.

Fine lines filled with [my favorites] muted browns, blues, greys.

Except for the rust red door.

Perhaps for entering all of it.

And then there is the [seemingly] stand alone edifice on the right.

A brave abode, one might say.

[abode: ORIGIN Middle English (in the sense [act of waiting] ): verbal noun from abide .]

Excerpt from Liège, quai de Maestricht by Gerard Michel

Sunday morning

Il Sole Ha Velato La Sua Luce/The Sun Hath Veil'd His Light

by leowincy / mauro

click here for more exquisite photographs

Thursday morning

An attempt at capturing the possibility of beauty:

Edward Gorey

This image makes me wonder about bears and poets and the kinds of relationships they might have had in the seventeenth century and might have even now. This black and white drawing makes me want to consider the meaning of this imagined and slightly out of balance encounter, where one creature, outsized by the other, stands ready to partake of a sweet offering of sorts. This portrait—with its banner proclaiming "A Future Unremembered Poet of the Seventeenth Century Accepts a Christmas Cookie from the Great Veiled Bear"—makes me want to see only the cordial beauty of this simple exchange.

And just so you know, I do not want to nor intend to survey the possibility of peril or deceit within these ranks. I want to keep this imagining of my own about this improbable duet on a level course of hope and kindness on the part of the creatures.

The two face one another. But their faces do not show me what might be on their minds. Instead, their manner, their posturing, tells of kindness and appreciation, concern and acceptance, and a quietly expressed belief in the principle that all creatures are equal and deserve equal rights and opportunities. The bear shares a cookie with a boyish looking poet who must stand on a tree trunk in order to be able to reach and, in turn, "accept" such a gift. To me, it seems both creatures have adapted to the quirky circumstances of this unlikely encounter. To make this exchange happen, both the bear and the poet must have taken risks and placed an amount of hope in the potentialities of their meeting. For the bear, it is generosity that encourages trust. For the poet, it is a knowingness that enables him to be brave and receptive.

Over and over, I want to remark, there is sweetness in this encounter of theirs—sweetness of taste and deed and accomplishment.

As for the author of the banner: his words do portend, I must note, a not so wonderful future for this particular poet. According to Gorey, at least as he insinuates with his term “unremembered”, the poet’s words did not live on beyond the century of his lifetime. But for me, I want to suggest, perhaps, that this seventeenth century poet, in his lifetime only, was regarded with respect and admiration for his accomplishments with words. As you can see, he holds himself, within the confines of this remarkable grouping of bear and poet, with a sense of pride—and even an air of confidence shown in his authentic looking poet’s attire. I do imagine/know that when this poet wrote about this cookie exchange, he uttered words of praise for all who were present.

A note to remember and to think on some more:

As for the bear, he wears ice skates for speed on the ice and a veil to denote a demureness to counter his prodigious proportions. Beneath the veil, there is a profiled look of concern and gentleness.

Sunday early afternoon

My Wardrobe

by

rae dunn

I have borrowed this sketch by rae dunn to demonstrate simple beauty. I wish wish I could draw or paint this kind of thing.

Instead, I write about order and beauty. Perhaps they are my sketches of my wardrobe. This kind of wardrobe writing is hard to do: it is hard to find the proper words and create the just right images and tell the compelling story that wants/yearns to be known. And, too, capturing and conveying the meaning that I have in mind. And then, all of it coming together upon the page like a finished painting.

Thinking about things:

An excerpt from January 19, 2011 The New York Times:

Dr. Smith’s Back Room

By CARLA L. PETERSON

My great-grand-aunt Maritcha Lyons, for example, reminisced in her memoir about a particularly popular meeting place for politically active blacks in the 19th century. “The store had a back room which was a rallying center,” she wrote, “it had a library and in there were held discussions and debates on all the topics of the day. The visitors had public spirit which had much to do in bringing about a more favorable state of things affecting the colored people of the state.” [click here to view the article.]

The Mulberry Street School, also known as the African Free School No. 2, where many of antebellum New York’s black leaders were educated.

I love this building. It is solid and square. And I love imagining its history--the generations of thought that have lived within this edifice. I think it is a fine image of a safe place for storing things.

It is nice to be at home this morning. I am at my desk with my coffee. [This is the most important time of my day: it is a time for what I call making order--or perhaps sorting--making order for a new beginning.] Desie is close by chewing on her bone and Goose is in Desie's bed napping. He is visiting while Shanan is away in Tahoe. [Hope he has good weather for skiing.] NPR is on--not sure what is being said, though. But no matter: I heard much of the news last night and early this morning while I could not sleep.

I have much on my mind to ponder and figure out and decide upon this Saturday morning. [Redundancy is purposefully rendered here.] Lots of sorting of images and words and feelings for archiving in their proper places in my mind/ memory. I am aware that I must be thoughtful [and careful] about how much space I provide for each of the these images and words and feelings, as I know their individual and combined space [and, in turn, their weight] most definitely matters, especially when one considers how one's memory is constructed and maintained/sustained and, perhaps most importantly, how one's memory affects one's sense of herself and her perception of others. And how she feels and acts.

Oh dear me. My words today are guarded [and hopefully benign] portrayals of my thoughts about things--[things mostly and intentionally unmentioned].

Remembering Isidore

On the trail Isidore

Isidore's birthday is coming up next week. He would have been 7 years old on November 17th. I miss him this morning. Even though Desie is right here next to me. Isidore was a good dog. Just so you know.

This is an excerpt from some of my writings about my sweet Isidore [from last March]:

There were our beloved walks on the Fire Trail in the late afternoons or evenings. These were our best walks. These were our best times together.

It was so beautiful up there on the trail and we both loved loved to behold this fragile beauty that was the trees and the sky and the ever changing views of the horizon. And you, most especially, liked to romp about and explore off trail scents [and sometimes roll in them], and, although I attempted to disparage you with warnings of the bath you would have to have upon our return home, you loved to play in the puddles and little creeks that were present [just for you?] after the rain. [Do you remember my commentaries on our way home about your muddy paws and my struggles, while driving, to keep you in one spot to lessen the dirt damage.]

You always ran ahead of me when we were on the trail but you always stopped to check where I was. [I must confess, I loved this part of our fire trail relationship. It showed that you knew we had to always keep track of each other and be sure we were taking good care of the other.] When I called you, you would race back to me. And then, run off again. Once you got lost and you could not find me and I could not find you. I stayed put and called and called you. Isidore! Isidore come! Izzy! And after quite some time—I think you had gone looking in the wrong direction and had to double back—you found me. And I found you. I could tell you had been lost and worried. We were so so happy [and relieved] to be back together.

I must add that you endured your post fire trail baths with patience and, what seemed to me, an expression on your wet face that showed understanding of the nature of these outdoor-indoor transitional necessities: we had had great fun outside up there on the fire trail, but now we must get clean enough to go inside.

Isidore Delp

November 17, 2003-February 18,2010

Borrowed words borrowed from my dear friend Elizabeth: Study situations and objects intricately.

*click on photos for larger view.

Blue

I have been blue since Saturday evening when Goose left. I suspected I would have to adjust to my life alone once again. These feelings of loneliness have to do with missing Goose and, even more , with remembering and missing my sweet Isidore.

Here are some of my thoughts on the matter: Isidore and I were supposed to spend our days and nights together for a long long time. We were supposed to grow old old together. And, as I have imagined many times, come to a time when we would hobble along trails in the hills and up the stairs to bed at night on our fragile and aged legs on each of the days we shared. We were going to look after each other. It is hard for me to imagine my years ahead, alone, without Isidore here with me.

Today, I read about Edgar and his beloved dogs: Almondine and her unswerving attempts to find Edgar. Tinder and Essay and Baboo and the choices they made about how to live their lives. Essay's attempt to fight the torrential storm. [what a deed to consider!] And her choice to stay with Edgar.

here are two passages from The Story of Edgar Sawtelle that warrant remembering:

COMING SOON!

Sunday morning

There is nothing more fragile than the word.

--M. Holquist

I have forgotten the

word I intended to say, and

my thought, unembodied,

returns to the realm of shadows.

--O. Mandelstam

Holquist’s text/passage evokes an image of the word within a context—an imagined context that surrounds this word, creates its fragility, and determines its meaning. There is a quiet sense of concern for the word within this image.

The words of Mandelstam add to this imagery, portraying an impression of a word unembodied, retreating from the anguish of forgetting, and returning to a “realm of shadows.” Of these dark words of Mandelstam, questions arise regarding the circumstances—the external and internal conditions that create such a withdrawal of an unembodied word; concerning the state of the individual; and, the individual’s perception of the weight of the circumstances in this particular situation that brought about the retraction of the intended word.

The words of Holquist and Mandelstam suggest the potentially formidable internal and external nature of circumstance, and the fragility of the word [and the individual] placed within this context. Their words complicate the notion of context and its relationship to meaning making.

Sketch of Mikhail Bakhtin whose words have also inspired these thoughts of mine.