August: Still hiding out in my old-man rooms waving to the grandkids when they’re cavorting in the backyard and having my lonely plates of dinner delivered at arms length with the three day old but adequately fumigated mail.
I’m reading a lot but I’m also gorging on cable television series. Currently finishing five years of The Wire which my daughter considered as hard evidence that I was hopelessly behind the times. I didn’t tell her I just watched Mr. Lucky (oh, that Andamo).
Continue reading “Lucky?”
Theodore Roethke is undoubtably my favorite poet, especially if you don’t count Milton, Pope, and Keats. Although this is a long-ish poem, it contains the one image that the poet burned into my mind and there is an interesting video at the end.
The Far Field
I dream of journeys repeatedly:
Of flying like a bat deep into a narrowing tunnel
Of driving alone, without luggage, out a long peninsula,
The road lined with snow-laden second growth,
A fine dry snow ticking the windshield,
Alternate snow and sleet, no on-coming traffic,
And no lights behind, in the blurred side-mirror,
The road changing from glazed tarface to a rubble of stone,
Ending at last in a hopeless sand-rut,
Where the car stalls,
Churning in a snowdrift
Until the headlights darken.
Continue reading “Without Luggage”
The subject has come up in several venues and I found it a useful exercise to consider all the things one might engage in to pass the time while living in isolation from the shadow of the Covid-19 pandemic.
First, I have a literary bucket list gathering many of those big fat, possibly difficult books I know I should read but never seem to have the time or the inclination. Do you have a bucket list too? Maybe now is a good time to start one. There’s a good chance that, despite all his best efforts, Der Drump (Dishonest John) will not kill us all off and we might truly make a dent in that scary ol’ bucket list.
So what to do while avoiding social contact?
Continue reading “Mumblety-peg”
From Mother and Child by Carole Maso:
NO ONE COULD tolerate the girl in the newspaper’s death from an undiagnosed, treatable form of diabetes after her parents chose to pray for her rather than take her to the doctor. There was too little insulin in her body, the autopsy said, but when opened up, all that could be seen was that she was overflowing with prayer. The prayers could be examined and dissected, but the God had already exited the body, leaving behind the wreckage. After the autopsy, the child’s sweetened organs were placed in a glass jar as a lesson for all.
On a similar note: