Posts Tagged ‘My World’

FIELD OF AUTUMN

Slow moves the acid breath of noon
over the copper-coated hill,
slow from the wild crab’s bearded breast
the palsied apples fall.

Like coloured smoke the day hangs fire,
taking the village without sound;
the vulture-headed sun lies low
chained to the violet ground.

The horse upon the rocky height
rolls all the valley in his eye,
but dares not raise his foot or move
his shoulder from the fly.
The sheep, snail-backed against the wall,
lifts her blind face but does not know
the cry her blackened tongue gives forth
is the first bleat of snow.

Each bird and stone, each roof and well,
feels the gold foot of autumn pass;
each spider binds with glittering snare
the splintered bones of grass.

Slow moves the hour that sucks our life,
slow drops the late wasp from the pear,
the rose tree’s thread of scent draws thin –
and snaps upon the air.

Laurie Lee ~ 1945

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On the outer edge of autumn. October 17, 2012.

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My daughter’s roving band of feathered foolish ones.

“Turkeys on the grass, alas!”

This is a farm, so I needn’t go into their ultimate fate for those of you with sensitive sensibilities. These handsome creatures lived a short but on the whole happy avian life, as evidenced by their presence very much out of the barnyard, foraging for fallen crab apples, and slugs and other delectables in the garden.

Carpe diem, all.

Happy Thanksgiving.

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My World: Rosamunde Pilcher???

Hello, dear fellow bookish friends. I would love a little input, if you feel so moved.

As some of you may have gathered from previous occasional comments, I provide books for my very frail, completely house-bound, 87-year-old mother. We happily share some of the same reading tastes, though she tends to be more tolerant of – how shall I put it? – more romantic, or uplifting books than I, and completely uninterested in anything smacking of historical fiction, memoirs, non-fictional travel or history (unless it’s local history, and she knows some of the people referred to), fantasy, sci-fi, satirical humour, or dark realism, which eliminates a huge percentage of my personal library for sharing with her.

Joanna Trollope, Maeve Bianchy, Mary Stewart, and their ilk all find favour, as do such authors as Miss Read, Monica Dickens, Daphne du Maurier and Pearl S. Buck. Classic mystery writers such as Agatha Christie, D.L. Sayers, Patricia Wentworth and Ngaio Marsh are acceptable, and I do believe I now have most of each one of those authors’ large production! She’s read and re-read everything even vaguely suitable from my collection, and with winter coming on, with its long, dark evenings, I’m racking my brains for new authors for her to explore and enjoy.

Yesterday, while trying to pick out some likely to be appealing books, I remembered someone on some blog I frequently read speaking quite highly of Rosamunde Pilcher, and – lo and behold! – there were quite a number to choose from in the several secondhand bookstores I visited.  So I’ve purchased a few – The Blue Bedroom (short stories), The Empty House, Another View, and September.

Today I’ve dipped into all of them, reading a page here and there, and several of the short stories, and I’m just not finding them terribly appealing. Is it just me, or did I pick the wrong ones, or??? These seem very “romantic fiction”, in all the worst ways. Could it be just that I’m coming off a course of Elizabeth Taylor (whom Mother did not at all enjoy when I slipped a few into her last box), and haven’t yet lowered my expectations?

What’s the general view on Rosamunde? Am I wasting my time with her, or do I need to dig deeper with a little more tolerance? Are there some books that are better than others, and if so, which would they be? Obviously The Shell Seekers must be one, as it is referenced favourably on every single flowery cover, as is Coming Home.

Your Pilcher opinions and other author suggestions most welcome!

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The Last Days of Summer Before the First Frost

Here at the wolf’s throat, at the egress of the howl,
all along the avenue of deer-blink and salmon-kick
where the spider lets its microphone down
into the cave of the blackberry bush—earth echo,
absence of the human voice—wait here
with a bee on your wrist and a fly on your cheek,
the tiny sun and tiny eclipse.
It is time to be grateful for the breath
of what you could crush without thought,
a moth, a child’s love, your own life.
There might never be another chance.
How did you find me, the astonished mother says
to her four-year-old boy who’d disappeared
in the crowds at the music festival.
I followed my heart, he shrugs,
so matter-of-fact you might not see
behind his words
(o hover and feed, but not too long)

the bee trails turning to ice as they’re flown.

Tim Bowling, 2011

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The best-laid plans oft gang agley, and so also do the spontaneous ones. We’ve all been laid low, in beautiful synchronicity, by an evil virus our daughter brought home from her newly convened dance studio chums. Hacking and barking like a bevy of two-legged seals, we hiked about Pacific Rim Park with ever-lessening enthusiasm for several days, before blearily deciding to suffer the rest of the awful illness’ term at home in relative comfort.

It wasn’t all so bad – there were some quite good bits. We hit low tide in early morning on several beaches, all alone but for the sea creatures in the intertidal zones; we napped away two beautifully sunny afternoons in the warm sand, wakening to read for a bit, watch the surfers attempt to catch those obviously rare “perfect waves”, and doze again; we people-watched one morning in Tofino and had a grand brunch at The Common Loaf, the iconic local bakery; we sat around numerous campfires commiserating with each other and comparing symptoms; we visited the Ucluelet Aquarium and chatted with the ever-enthusiastic and knowledgeable biologists and volunteers; and even, on our last day, managed a side trip into the big city to visit the Cone Sisters Retrospective “Collecting Matisse” exhibition on loan from Baltimore, at the Vancouver Art Gallery.

We pulled out of the city and headed up the Sea-to-Sky Highway at 2:30 and made it home just before midnight – a marathon drive, but the reward was an enthusiastic greeting by our canine and feline crew, and our own cozy beds. Today we’ve been wandering about a bit lost and culture-shocked by the abrupt changes in our generally sedate lives this past week.

Newly topped up with sea air and a dash of culture, we’re thinking we’re now ready to face our getting-ready-for-winter chores with fresh enthusiasm. Or, to be honest, we will be ready soon, once we get a bit further along in our viral journey.

I only managed to read two short books, and I didn’t take too many pictures, but here are a few souvenirs of the lightning-fast trip. Next time…

*****

We arrived just in time for a rare clear evening and an awe-inspiring sunset over the ocean, next landfall Japan.

Long Beach, Pacific Rim National Park Reserve, Vancouver Island, British Columbia.

A very special place.

And a while later, the real celestial show began.

Early the next morning we enjoyed the company of ravens scouting for a low tide meal, and using a convenient driftwood structure as a lookout post.

Starfish. (But you knew that, didn’t you?)

 And many sea anemones.

Waves at Incinerator Rock, a favourite surfer’s hangout. Can you see the two “Bobs” in the water? We decided that all surfers are named Bob, because that’s what they spent the vast majority of their time doing. Waiting on the perfect wave! This is wetsuit water, even in high summer. They hung around for hours out there, like seals in the surf, while we napped and watched from our warm and sandy nook among the washed up driftwood logs.

And on our last morning, we caught low tide and waited for the turning at the perfectly named Halfmoon Bay. Down a kilometre and a half of no longer sign-posted trail, ending in a precipitous ocean side staircase fast giving in to the elements, we were the only people here for hours. We met a few fellow trekkers coming in as we were leaving – perfect timing and a lovely way to end our too-short visit.

If you ever get a chance to visit this glorious area, do it! There’s never a bad time, summer or winter, rain or shine.

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My World: Heading South

Greetings all – just a quick note to those of you so kind as to visit and especially comment on my postings. We have unexpectedly been blessed with a farm sitter, so have decided to take a rather spur of the moment trip to points south and west. In other words – so we’re shortly heading out on a camping/hiking trip to beautiful Long Beach on the west coast of Vancouver Island. We are leaving all electronics behind, so the blog shall fall silent for a while – maybe a week or a bit longer?

I’ve got a great big pile of books to take along for these ever-earlier-dark autumn evenings, and lots of batteries for my reading light, so will be back with an even longer “must review” list.

Leaving you all with a glimpse of one of my favourite new bridges, the soaring Golden Ears span over the Fraser River heading towards Vancouver, which we may or may not pass over this trip, depending on traffic levels and our ever-changing route plans. (It was also the only vaguely “coastal” image I could find quickly on my camera card this afternoon, before wiping it clean for the next go-round.)

Ciao!

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Hello everyone –

I am going to be doing some editing over the next day or two, so you might be receiving a few duplicate posts.

Please ignore them – it will merely be typos etc. being corrected.

I’ve noticed a few bothersome things reading over old posts.

Must remember to use that spellchecker…

Onward & upward!

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The Ideal and the Actual Life

 

Forever fair, forever calm and bright,

Life flies on plumage, zephyr-light,

For those who on the Olympian hill rejoice—

Moons wane, and races wither to the tomb,

And ‘mid the universal ruin, bloom

The rosy days of gods—With man, the choice,

Timid and anxious, hesitates between

The sense’s pleasure and the soul’s content;

While on celestial brows, aloft and sheen,

The beams of both are bent.

 

Seekest thou on earth the life of gods to share,

Safe in the realm of death?—beware

To pluck the fruits that glitter to thine eye;

Content thyself with gazing on their glow—

Short are the joys possession can bestow,

And in possession sweet desire will die…

 

Friedrich Schiller, circa 1790

(Poem fragment, translated from the German.)

*****

We have been up to our mountaintop and safely – though sore-footed! – back down. Home late last night and today we are, in memory, still walking among the heights, not wanting to return to the prosaic world quite yet. It is seldom that the fulfillment of a small dream is better than hoped for; this was one of those rare occasions. The ideal and the actual, at one with each other!

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Sonnet III

Not with libations, but with shouts and laughter
We drenched the altars of Love’s sacred grove,
Shaking to earth green fruits, impatient after
The launching of the colored moths of Love.
Love’s proper myrtle and his mother’s zone
We bound about our irreligious brows,
And fettered him with garlands of our own,
And spread a banquet in his frugal house.
Not yet the god has spoken; but I fear
Though we should break our bodies in his flame,
And pour our blood upon his altar, here
Henceforward is a grove without a name,
A pasture to the shaggy goats of Pan,
Whence flee forever a woman and a man.
 

From Second April, 1921

Edna St. Vincent Millay

*****

Tomorrow is our 25th wedding anniversary, and we are off to celebrate by hiking up a mountainside. This space may be quiet for a few days, as we ramble together, revisit favourite places, and reminisce far from the wired-in world.

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