25 November 2009

All I Can Read

The only thing I can read right now is poetry. Actually, even poetry is hard because it makes me feel, and see, and think. But it is better than the alternative.
Er ist gestorben, und mit ihm mein Herz. With what friend is it worthwhile to exchange thoughts?
Vielleicht wird es leichter werden, aber . . .

Edna St. Vincent Millay:

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide.
There are a hundred places where I fear
To go, -- so with his memory they brim.
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him.

28 January 2009


What was it that Maida's friend Billy called her? Petronella? I can't remember. But I do know that somewhere in that same paragraph or page was something about the Princesses of Serendip finding unexpected happiness. That's what I thought of this afternoon when, happily, Alice came by the library. It was a lovely, unexpected joy that just came into my life. It must be a good thing if only that I am writing the first blog entry in a whole year! Inspiration comes from so many sources: most of them for me, from regular folk saying something that triggers a thought that persists until I do something about it. But, the whole purpose of this blog was not to selfconsciously write but to unselfconsciously report on the way I see things. Missive? Memoir? Rumination? Maybe a little of all of those.

During the past year I read a book called Six-Word Memoirs. I wrote one at the time that still is very appropriate now. Here is my tiny memoir:

No mistakes,
Only treasure
In disguise.

I think I felt the licking of inspiration, like tongues of flame engulfing a hardwood log in the fireplace. So look for more entries in here. A year of silence is a long, long time.