Monday blue

October 22, 2018

A PLACE

Monday. From the old English mōnandæġ: the Moon’s own day. In England and Wales more people commit suicide on a Monday than any other day of the week (Look it up on Wickedpaedophile if you don’t believe me). A melancholy day, then, a dull end to the high-jinks of a fun weekend, a full-stop the size of a full moon in the minds of some, who then reach for the pill bottle –

This morning outside in the garden it feels as if the chill is stripping you down, layer by layer. It’s like winter seeped into your bones before you knew it was happening. This is a cold that grips firm and goes deep. It’s Monday cold –

Time for a glass of the breakfast brandy and a quick poem from Seidel:

“Sii Romantico, Seidel, Tanto Per Cambiare”

Women have a playground slide
That wraps you in monsoon and takes you for a ride.
The English girl Louise, his latest squeeze, was being snide.
Easy to deride
The way he stayed alive to stay inside
His women with his puffed-up pride.
The pharmacy supplied
The rising fire truck ladder that the fire did not provide.
The toothless carnivore devoured Viagra and Finasteride
(Which is the one that shrinks the American prostate nationwide
And at a higher dosage grows hair on the bald) to stem the tide.
Not to die had been his way to hide
The fact that he was terrified.
He could not tell them that, it would be suicide.
It would make them even more humidified.
The women wrapped monsoon around him, thunder-thighed.

Frederick Seidel

Morning all

October 18, 2018

Slight chill in the air today. This morning seems kissed by winter beckoning to us from very near at hand, October into November. The sky above, overcast, exhales a pale mist of rain over everything.

beneath the sea

October 14, 2018

What exists beneath the sea? I’d always pictured it in colours of emerald and aquamarine, where black velvet fish with sequined eyes swim among plankton. But, when my eyes adjust, I see gray stones, lost anchors, wet wood, buttons, hooks, and eyes, the salem witches who wouldn’t float, stars and stripes, missing vessels, windup toys, the souls of Romeo and Juliet, peaches, cream, pistons, screams, cages of ribs and birds, tunnels, nutcracker soldiers, satin bows, drugstore signs, Pandora box ripped open at its hinges.

Kelly Easton
The History of a Star

a storm brewing

The wind is rip roaring like an express train over the moor. It comes from the south-west, so not cold. Just angry. Unreasonable. It wrenches branches from the trees standing guard over the generations of buried dead in the churchyard. It shrieks in the smoky chimneys of the cottages, rattling windows and doors in their frames and filling the heads of sleeping children with unpleasant dreams of shapeless things.

And the rain. Did I mention the rain? Torrential, unceasing. It was rain like this, I’m sure, turned old Noah to shipbuilding –

• Never turn around to check behind you. You’ll see nothing, but once you start doing it you won’t be able to stop, and an ominous feeling will follow you until you don’t lock your house’s door behind you.
• If you stand very still and listen you will hear the woods calling for you. Don’t answer. Never answer.
• You’ll hear things quietly following you, hidden in the trees by your sides. It’s okay, they’re just checking on you.
• Don’t be scared, but be really, really wary.
• If you have a bad feeling about taking a certain path, don’t. You’ll avoid whatever is waiting for you at the end of it.
• You never know what may be buried under the soil you’re walking on. Remember that every time you take a step. Pray that whatever it is, it won’t wake up.
• Be careful not to step on any beetle, or you’ll never get rid of them.
• If you bring a knife with you, name it. Otherwise the blade will turn against you as soon as you try to use it.
• Make sure you remember the way back home. As soon as you get lost, you’re just another piece of fresh meat.

Michelangelo
Almost Blue

the essential facts of life

October 11, 2018

sunlight in trees

I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately, to front only the essential facts of life, and see if I could not learn what it had to teach, and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived. I did not wish to live what was not life, living is so dear; nor did I wish to practice resignation, unless it was quite necessary. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life, to live so sturdily and Spartan-like as to put to rout all that was not life, to cut a broad swath and shave close, to drive life into a corner, and reduce it to its lowest terms.

Henry David Thoreau
Walden: Or, Life in the Woods

the slush of ourselves

October 9, 2018

Paint ghosts over everything, the sadness of everything. We made ourselves cold. We made ourselves snow. We smuggled ourselves into ourselves. Haunted by each other’s knowledge. To hide somewhere is not surrender, it is trickery. All day the snow falls down, all night the snow. I try to guess your trajectory and end up telling my own story. We left footprints in the slush of ourselves, getting out of there.

Richard Siken
War of the Foxes

Bees

October 7, 2018

Bees blew like cake-crumbs through the golden air, white butterflies like sugared wafers, and when it wasn’t raining a diamond dust took over which veiled and yet magnified all things

Laurie Lee
Cider With Rosie

It is terrible to be alone

October 4, 2018

railings

Each of the hundred bedrooms with their shuttered windows might have held a corpse, rotting in humidity beneath the glacial swathings of the bed. In the lounge, a mist perpetually filmed the mirrors, the wicker armchairs gathering sociably around the glass-topped tables creaked at one another in the silence, so that now and then an apprehensive human head would bob up from over a writing table or the back of a settee. The rain was always audible on the glass roof of the verandah.

It is terrible to be alone in the darkness of rain, swept aside by one’s world’s indifference into a corner of a house. It is still more terrible to be swept aside into a corner of a continent.

Elizabeth Bowen
Salon des Dames

woods and otherworlds

October 2, 2018

path

There is no mystery in this association of woods and otherworlds, for as anyone who has walked the woods knows, they are places of correspondence, of call and answer. Visual affinities of colour, relief and texture abound. A fallen branch echoes the deltoid form of a streambed into which it has come to rest. Chrome yellow autumn elm leaves find their colour rhyme in the eye-ring of the blackbird. Different aspects of the forest link unexpectedly with each other, and so it is that within the stories, different times and worlds can be joined.

Robert Macfarlane
The Wild Places