As it was our last club this time round in Castlenel,I did something different ! i consulted I ching about "The Art of Counselling"
The response was extremely favourable!
We enjoyed talking over John book. I read a recent addition, and John wanted some feedback on this,which I gave him.
We also enjoyed chatting about I ching.
Adios May 22nd club for a while.
Friday, 11 June 2010
May 22nd Club 11th June
John chose to read from his book Latitude Chapter 12 Seltz, 67, Bas Rhin, Alsace et Lorraine, Alsace1
This is a reported observation of bells ringing once on the hour at Seltz, close to the German frontier, an observation made by a long range walker on the Camino del Cid, while she paused in Castalla. She was a surprise visitor. The only hotel was full that evening and it is expensive. The tourist office phoned to ask if we could help out and we said yes as they know us well. She was glad of the use of a Villeneuve futon and the promise of breakfast at seven. I was in charge of toast and omelettes. Tourists are quite rare here but she was a traveller on a two month sabbatical travelling back to Paris from Cadiz. She had started in Elche yesterday and today she would be off to Alcoi. So she was doing about 30 kilometres a day.
I was fascinated having a conversation with someone actually doing what I reckoned the Clockmakers did, carrying very little and being resourceful as witness our late evening phonecall. Yes, she would be back in Paris by Autumn. The paths were clear to see and mostly well maintained. I eventually outlined my theory to her partly to excuse my breakfast interrogation, partly to test my theory. It seemed suddenly very real. ‘They would travel early Spring and in the Autumn, she said. Its too hot to do distance like that in the summer. She had walked in Savoie and the Jura. ‘I’ll give you one for your book’, she said. The town of Seltz near the German border. I studied there and lived in an upstairs room, a room just like last night. The church was just outside my window. It had a clock which rang all day and all night and I never got used to it. I can hear it now. Ding dong every quarter’. ‘How many times did it ring the hour?’ I asked. ‘Gruss Gott’, she said, or something like it. ‘Once was enough’.
This is a reported observation of bells ringing once on the hour at Seltz, close to the German frontier, an observation made by a long range walker on the Camino del Cid, while she paused in Castalla. She was a surprise visitor. The only hotel was full that evening and it is expensive. The tourist office phoned to ask if we could help out and we said yes as they know us well. She was glad of the use of a Villeneuve futon and the promise of breakfast at seven. I was in charge of toast and omelettes. Tourists are quite rare here but she was a traveller on a two month sabbatical travelling back to Paris from Cadiz. She had started in Elche yesterday and today she would be off to Alcoi. So she was doing about 30 kilometres a day.
I was fascinated having a conversation with someone actually doing what I reckoned the Clockmakers did, carrying very little and being resourceful as witness our late evening phonecall. Yes, she would be back in Paris by Autumn. The paths were clear to see and mostly well maintained. I eventually outlined my theory to her partly to excuse my breakfast interrogation, partly to test my theory. It seemed suddenly very real. ‘They would travel early Spring and in the Autumn, she said. Its too hot to do distance like that in the summer. She had walked in Savoie and the Jura. ‘I’ll give you one for your book’, she said. The town of Seltz near the German border. I studied there and lived in an upstairs room, a room just like last night. The church was just outside my window. It had a clock which rang all day and all night and I never got used to it. I can hear it now. Ding dong every quarter’. ‘How many times did it ring the hour?’ I asked. ‘Gruss Gott’, she said, or something like it. ‘Once was enough’.
Thursday, 10 June 2010
May 22nd Club June 9th
John read a beautiful french poem then translated it for me,quite beautiful.
Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant :
Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j’étais belle.
When you are very old, at evening, by the fire,
spinning wool by candlelight and winding it in skeins,
you will say in wonderment as you recite my lines:
“Ronsard admired me in the days when I was fair.”
Ronsard wrote many poems to a woman called Helen.
I read from a dear friend Dave Cormack's ( now passed)book Peacing Together
I have not seen this book for a while but when i noticed it on the shelf it took me back to summer evening in a Hotel in Manchester many years ago when he mentioned he was writig a book about conflict resolution.
I being quite young idealistic,and in the peace movement said " why do you have to write about conflict? write about peace" he laughed at the time,but when i met him a year or so later,he showed me this book,with its rainbow cover and pointed to this passage,he said it was because of what I had said the first night that I met him that he chose this title.
Peacing Together
Dave's passage.
" Peacing"?
I had some difficulty in arriving at the title Peacing Together.
The English language is righ in words relating to conflict-
we have words such as "fight"and"fighting" ,"war" and "warring","conflict" and "conflicting","battle"and "battling " and so on-all the nouns and their accompanying
verbs.But we have not verb in English to correspond with the noun "peace".But this book is about doing peace.It is a guide to action for peacemakers,and i could find no word that satisfactorily captured the concept,so i have taken the liberty of creating a new one--peacing.
Peacing is a hig rist business.The forces that seek to divide,as we shall see,must not be underestimated.The lone peacemaker is too vulnerable,too exposed and under too much pressure to survive long in the midsts of damaging interpersonal conflicts.
Peacing is, then,a team game,to be done with the support of others.So Peacing Together will encourage you to revise your ideas about conflict and reconciliation and to work with others in new ways to bring a greater degree of stability and peace to the lives and organisations of those around us.
Thank you Dave--we have some good times!
Quand vous serez bien vieille, au soir, à la chandelle,
Assise auprès du feu, dévidant et filant,
Direz, chantant mes vers, en vous émerveillant :
Ronsard me célébrait du temps que j’étais belle.
When you are very old, at evening, by the fire,
spinning wool by candlelight and winding it in skeins,
you will say in wonderment as you recite my lines:
“Ronsard admired me in the days when I was fair.”
Ronsard wrote many poems to a woman called Helen.
I read from a dear friend Dave Cormack's ( now passed)book Peacing Together
I have not seen this book for a while but when i noticed it on the shelf it took me back to summer evening in a Hotel in Manchester many years ago when he mentioned he was writig a book about conflict resolution.
I being quite young idealistic,and in the peace movement said " why do you have to write about conflict? write about peace" he laughed at the time,but when i met him a year or so later,he showed me this book,with its rainbow cover and pointed to this passage,he said it was because of what I had said the first night that I met him that he chose this title.
Peacing Together
Dave's passage.
" Peacing"?
I had some difficulty in arriving at the title Peacing Together.
The English language is righ in words relating to conflict-
we have words such as "fight"and"fighting" ,"war" and "warring","conflict" and "conflicting","battle"and "battling " and so on-all the nouns and their accompanying
verbs.But we have not verb in English to correspond with the noun "peace".But this book is about doing peace.It is a guide to action for peacemakers,and i could find no word that satisfactorily captured the concept,so i have taken the liberty of creating a new one--peacing.
Peacing is a hig rist business.The forces that seek to divide,as we shall see,must not be underestimated.The lone peacemaker is too vulnerable,too exposed and under too much pressure to survive long in the midsts of damaging interpersonal conflicts.
Peacing is, then,a team game,to be done with the support of others.So Peacing Together will encourage you to revise your ideas about conflict and reconciliation and to work with others in new ways to bring a greater degree of stability and peace to the lives and organisations of those around us.
Thank you Dave--we have some good times!
June 8th
John read a few lines from John Betjeman’s ‘Parliament Hill Fields’
in the fresh air this evening on the balcony.
The poet recalls a tram ride; a summer outing to Parliament Hill.
‘Outside Charringtons we waited by the ‘STOP HERE IF REQUIRED’,
Launched aboard the shopping basket, sat precipitately down,
Rocked past Zwanziger the baker’s and the terrace blackish brown,
And the curious Anglo Norman parish church of Kentish Town.
….
Oh the after tram ride quiet, when we heard a mile beyond,
Silver music from the bandstand, barking dogs by Highgate Pond;
Up the hill where stucco houses in Virginia Creeper drown-
And my childish wave of pity, seeing children carrying down
Sheaves of drooping dandelions to the courts of Kentish Town
I (helen) did not read tonight,but love thid poem,I remember picking dandelions for my mum and them drooping almost immediately!
in the fresh air this evening on the balcony.
The poet recalls a tram ride; a summer outing to Parliament Hill.
‘Outside Charringtons we waited by the ‘STOP HERE IF REQUIRED’,
Launched aboard the shopping basket, sat precipitately down,
Rocked past Zwanziger the baker’s and the terrace blackish brown,
And the curious Anglo Norman parish church of Kentish Town.
….
Oh the after tram ride quiet, when we heard a mile beyond,
Silver music from the bandstand, barking dogs by Highgate Pond;
Up the hill where stucco houses in Virginia Creeper drown-
And my childish wave of pity, seeing children carrying down
Sheaves of drooping dandelions to the courts of Kentish Town
I (helen) did not read tonight,but love thid poem,I remember picking dandelions for my mum and them drooping almost immediately!
Monday, 7 June 2010
June 7th May 22nd club
an evening when we were both tired and I was feeling slightly under the weather,
I found this little rhyme on the last page of The Artist's Way
It is comforting.
WORDS FOR IT
I wish I could take language
And cool moist rags.
i would lay words on your forehead.
I would wrap worsd on your wrists.
"There ,there",my words would say--
Or something better.
I would ask them to murmur,
"Hush," and "shh,shh,its alright,"
I would ask them to hold you all night.
I wish i could take language
And daub and soothe and cool
Where fever blisters and burns,
Where fever turns itself agains you.
i wish i could take language
And heal the words that were the wounds
You have no nams for.
Julia Cameron.
I found this little rhyme on the last page of The Artist's Way
It is comforting.
WORDS FOR IT
I wish I could take language
And cool moist rags.
i would lay words on your forehead.
I would wrap worsd on your wrists.
"There ,there",my words would say--
Or something better.
I would ask them to murmur,
"Hush," and "shh,shh,its alright,"
I would ask them to hold you all night.
I wish i could take language
And daub and soothe and cool
Where fever blisters and burns,
Where fever turns itself agains you.
i wish i could take language
And heal the words that were the wounds
You have no nams for.
Julia Cameron.
part 2 June 6th
John chose this lovely passage from the Tempest, Act 4 by W.S.
"Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep".
"Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air;
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capped towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve;
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep".
June 6th may 22nd club
Balcony Castlenel.
I read from the last page of 44 Scotland Street. a blessing,I think.
Here in this place,
Of angled streets and northern light,
Under this particular moon,with Scotland
Quiet and sleeping behind and around us;
Of what may I speak but friendship,
And of our human wish for love-not just for me
But for friends too,and those who are not my friends;
So if you ask me now,at this moment,
What is my wish: it is for love over Scotland,
Like tears of rain- that is enough.
Alexander McCall Smith
I read from the last page of 44 Scotland Street. a blessing,I think.
Here in this place,
Of angled streets and northern light,
Under this particular moon,with Scotland
Quiet and sleeping behind and around us;
Of what may I speak but friendship,
And of our human wish for love-not just for me
But for friends too,and those who are not my friends;
So if you ask me now,at this moment,
What is my wish: it is for love over Scotland,
Like tears of rain- that is enough.
Alexander McCall Smith
Saturday, 5 June 2010
June 4th May 22nd club
No reading tonight.
We had Pilar Orion Africa and Sammy here for supper.
We heard they are moving to Finland and we enjoyed listened to tales of Orion's visit to Helsinki---long dark winters a lot of snow---wonderful working conditions--and Santa is close bye.
Good luck to you all on your next adventure.
We had Pilar Orion Africa and Sammy here for supper.
We heard they are moving to Finland and we enjoyed listened to tales of Orion's visit to Helsinki---long dark winters a lot of snow---wonderful working conditions--and Santa is close bye.
Good luck to you all on your next adventure.
May 22nd club. June 3rd
Castlenel June 3rd.
today we had wonderful news,David has signed his contact with the chinese.
A long awaited reward for many years of hard work.
For the first time in a long while we felt celebratory and we drank some of the 1.65
I said my favourite poem to John .
A Piper by Seamus O'Sullivan. ( a moment of Joy in another wise ordinary day)
A piper in the streets today
set up, and tuned, and started to play,
And away, away, away on the tide
of his music we started; on ev'ry side
Doors and windows were opened wide,
[And men left down their work and came,]1
And women with petticoats coloured [like]2 flame.
And little bare feet that were blue with cold
went dancing back to the age of gold,
And all the world went gay, went gay
For half an hour in the [street]3 today.
John read this beautiful passage from his book (in progress) Latitude?
We had some lovely memories of our time on holiday in Spain many years ago.
Clepsydra
Three millennia and more before them, on the far shore of the Hellespont, potters worked making jars. With some they made a tiny hole in the base before firing the clay. These were their timing mechanisms, true clocks, and strangely they were alarm clocks. They called them Water thieves, Klepto Hydras hence the title of this chapter.
For the peoples of Asia knew exactly what time of day it was. They had the sun, the moon and the stars. Particularly they had the Morning Star which hangs brilliantly and alone in the dark sky when all others fade. That marks aprecise recognisable moment every morning which lasts as long as it takes to boil a kettle. The dawn begins, bats are flying, a cock crows in the old town and the star begins to lose its brilliance. In minutes it is gone. A swallow joins the bats. The sun gleams. That precise period of time before the day begins is the Madruga in Spanish and is the first hour of the ancient day.
The evening stars appearance marks the last hour. Helen and I lived one summer when we were first married, in a house with a view of the sea and of the lighthouse of San Sebastian. After sundown, but while it was still light, we would sit outside and drink a glass of something. A bat would appear each night flying once round our table and then be gone. The moment it left us the lighthouse would light up. As the long summer progressed into Autumn the time by the clock of these events crept earlier and earlier but the sequence was always the same. The bat would circle. The light would gleam.
That moment is the last hour of the ancient day and men and women sense it as much as bats and lighthouse keepers. And once a month the new moon hangs in the western sky and on truly auspicious evenings the evening star keeps it company.
And with that moon, we know a month of evenings has passed and another is about to begin.
As the sun appeared, Cleopatra’s Needle and all her companions became the day time clocks. The inhabitants of busy metropolitan cities in the east could tell with a glance at her shadow which of the daylight hours it was.
During the day, water clocks were used for timing more precise shorter intervals, from the length of a court hearing to the baking of cakes. After sundown they were useful for timing the night watches for wakeful guardians.
Marcus Aurelius the great Roman Emperor left some wonderful meditations on what it is to be human and in one of them, unwittingly I think, he gives us an insight into one wakeful guardian, a sentry on guard duty in an armed camp. He is speaking about death and how to behave when that time comes and he says,’ be like a soldier on sentry duty, stay watchful. When you feel the hand of your replacement on your shoulder, do not make a fuss but stand aside quietly and take your leave’.
He is describing I think an essential military drill but imagine it. Have you seen the film? Gladiator with Russel Crowe, yes Richard Harris. Where are we then. Germany, forests, wolves and some very ferocious enemies about. It’s a dark night and you are on duty. Been there a few hours staring at the forest, all ears. Suddenly a hand on your shoulder? A muffled shriek more like. Or an ‘ Oh my God don’t Do that!’ Or if you’re the replacement and don’t want to be stabbed first, official enquiry afterwards, you might try a little cough as you come up behind the guy, surely. Or a tuneless whistle?
No sign of my father’s, ‘ Halt who goes there! Advance friend and be recognised!’ Who makes these drills up? Not a Marcus Aurelius that’s for sure. He knew about surviving in hostile territory. At least not until.. no I wont spoil the film if you haven’t seen it. I reflect now on the relaxed state of total awareness behind such trusting communications which the Legions must have cultivated when on duty.
From Latitude (unpublished ) by J.L.
congratulations David---the 1.65 was delicious.
today we had wonderful news,David has signed his contact with the chinese.
A long awaited reward for many years of hard work.
For the first time in a long while we felt celebratory and we drank some of the 1.65
I said my favourite poem to John .
A Piper by Seamus O'Sullivan. ( a moment of Joy in another wise ordinary day)
A piper in the streets today
set up, and tuned, and started to play,
And away, away, away on the tide
of his music we started; on ev'ry side
Doors and windows were opened wide,
[And men left down their work and came,]1
And women with petticoats coloured [like]2 flame.
And little bare feet that were blue with cold
went dancing back to the age of gold,
And all the world went gay, went gay
For half an hour in the [street]3 today.
John read this beautiful passage from his book (in progress) Latitude?
We had some lovely memories of our time on holiday in Spain many years ago.
Clepsydra
Three millennia and more before them, on the far shore of the Hellespont, potters worked making jars. With some they made a tiny hole in the base before firing the clay. These were their timing mechanisms, true clocks, and strangely they were alarm clocks. They called them Water thieves, Klepto Hydras hence the title of this chapter.
For the peoples of Asia knew exactly what time of day it was. They had the sun, the moon and the stars. Particularly they had the Morning Star which hangs brilliantly and alone in the dark sky when all others fade. That marks aprecise recognisable moment every morning which lasts as long as it takes to boil a kettle. The dawn begins, bats are flying, a cock crows in the old town and the star begins to lose its brilliance. In minutes it is gone. A swallow joins the bats. The sun gleams. That precise period of time before the day begins is the Madruga in Spanish and is the first hour of the ancient day.
The evening stars appearance marks the last hour. Helen and I lived one summer when we were first married, in a house with a view of the sea and of the lighthouse of San Sebastian. After sundown, but while it was still light, we would sit outside and drink a glass of something. A bat would appear each night flying once round our table and then be gone. The moment it left us the lighthouse would light up. As the long summer progressed into Autumn the time by the clock of these events crept earlier and earlier but the sequence was always the same. The bat would circle. The light would gleam.
That moment is the last hour of the ancient day and men and women sense it as much as bats and lighthouse keepers. And once a month the new moon hangs in the western sky and on truly auspicious evenings the evening star keeps it company.
And with that moon, we know a month of evenings has passed and another is about to begin.
As the sun appeared, Cleopatra’s Needle and all her companions became the day time clocks. The inhabitants of busy metropolitan cities in the east could tell with a glance at her shadow which of the daylight hours it was.
During the day, water clocks were used for timing more precise shorter intervals, from the length of a court hearing to the baking of cakes. After sundown they were useful for timing the night watches for wakeful guardians.
Marcus Aurelius the great Roman Emperor left some wonderful meditations on what it is to be human and in one of them, unwittingly I think, he gives us an insight into one wakeful guardian, a sentry on guard duty in an armed camp. He is speaking about death and how to behave when that time comes and he says,’ be like a soldier on sentry duty, stay watchful. When you feel the hand of your replacement on your shoulder, do not make a fuss but stand aside quietly and take your leave’.
He is describing I think an essential military drill but imagine it. Have you seen the film? Gladiator with Russel Crowe, yes Richard Harris. Where are we then. Germany, forests, wolves and some very ferocious enemies about. It’s a dark night and you are on duty. Been there a few hours staring at the forest, all ears. Suddenly a hand on your shoulder? A muffled shriek more like. Or an ‘ Oh my God don’t Do that!’ Or if you’re the replacement and don’t want to be stabbed first, official enquiry afterwards, you might try a little cough as you come up behind the guy, surely. Or a tuneless whistle?
No sign of my father’s, ‘ Halt who goes there! Advance friend and be recognised!’ Who makes these drills up? Not a Marcus Aurelius that’s for sure. He knew about surviving in hostile territory. At least not until.. no I wont spoil the film if you haven’t seen it. I reflect now on the relaxed state of total awareness behind such trusting communications which the Legions must have cultivated when on duty.
From Latitude (unpublished ) by J.L.
congratulations David---the 1.65 was delicious.
May 22nd club. June 2nd
We took part in Gavin's funeral today by webcam.It was a comforting experience a beautiful tribute to Gavin.John and I then went into Alicante and walked along the beach and watched the sun coming up over the sea.We came home for breakfast and had a long sleep.
I wakened up feeling much better with a huge sense of gratitude for my 43 year long friendship with Gavin.
I chose to read the introduction to A Gift from the Sea"
( I felt I got a gift from the sea this morning, hope returning)
Introduction.
I began these pages for myself,in order to think out my own particular pattern of living,my own individual balance of life,work and human relationships. And since I think better with pencil in hand,i started naturally to write.
I had the feeling,when the thoughts first clarified on paper,that my experience was very different from other people's. (Are we all under this illusion?) My situation had,in certain ways, more freedom than that of most people,and in certain other ways,much less.
Besides,I thought,not all woman are searching for a new pattern of living,or want a contemplative corner of their own. Many woman are content with their lives as they are.They manage amazingly well,far better that I,it seemed to me,looking at hheir lives from the outside.With envy and admiration, I observed the porcelain perfection of their smoothly ticking days.Perhaps they had no problems,or had found the answers long ago.No I decided,these discussions would have value and interest only for myself.
But as I went on writing and simultaneously talking with other woman,young and old with different lives and experience--those who supported themselves,those who wished careers,those who were hard-working housewives and mothers,and those with more ease--
I found that my point of view was not unique. In varying settings and under different forms,I discovered that many woman and men,too, were grappling with essentially the same questions as I,and were hungry to discuss and argue and hammer out possible answers.Even those whose lives had appeared to be ticking imperturbably under their smiling clock-faces were often trying,like me,to evolve another rhythm with more creative pauses in it,more adjustment to their individual needs,and new and more alive relationships to themselves as well as others.
And so gradually,these chapters,fed by conversations,arguements and revelations from men and woman of all groups, became more than my individual story,until I decided in the end to give them back to the people who shared and stimulated many of these thoughts. here ,then,with my warm feelings of gratitude and companionship for those working along the same lines,I return my gift from the sea.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh.
John chose Shakespeare ,he also had a sense of the cloud being lifted,and he chose ,a favourite of mine, because it is mentioned in Sense and Sensibility Jane Austen
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Sonnet 116 W.S.
I wakened up feeling much better with a huge sense of gratitude for my 43 year long friendship with Gavin.
I chose to read the introduction to A Gift from the Sea"
( I felt I got a gift from the sea this morning, hope returning)
Introduction.
I began these pages for myself,in order to think out my own particular pattern of living,my own individual balance of life,work and human relationships. And since I think better with pencil in hand,i started naturally to write.
I had the feeling,when the thoughts first clarified on paper,that my experience was very different from other people's. (Are we all under this illusion?) My situation had,in certain ways, more freedom than that of most people,and in certain other ways,much less.
Besides,I thought,not all woman are searching for a new pattern of living,or want a contemplative corner of their own. Many woman are content with their lives as they are.They manage amazingly well,far better that I,it seemed to me,looking at hheir lives from the outside.With envy and admiration, I observed the porcelain perfection of their smoothly ticking days.Perhaps they had no problems,or had found the answers long ago.No I decided,these discussions would have value and interest only for myself.
But as I went on writing and simultaneously talking with other woman,young and old with different lives and experience--those who supported themselves,those who wished careers,those who were hard-working housewives and mothers,and those with more ease--
I found that my point of view was not unique. In varying settings and under different forms,I discovered that many woman and men,too, were grappling with essentially the same questions as I,and were hungry to discuss and argue and hammer out possible answers.Even those whose lives had appeared to be ticking imperturbably under their smiling clock-faces were often trying,like me,to evolve another rhythm with more creative pauses in it,more adjustment to their individual needs,and new and more alive relationships to themselves as well as others.
And so gradually,these chapters,fed by conversations,arguements and revelations from men and woman of all groups, became more than my individual story,until I decided in the end to give them back to the people who shared and stimulated many of these thoughts. here ,then,with my warm feelings of gratitude and companionship for those working along the same lines,I return my gift from the sea.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh.
John chose Shakespeare ,he also had a sense of the cloud being lifted,and he chose ,a favourite of mine, because it is mentioned in Sense and Sensibility Jane Austen
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Sonnet 116 W.S.
Wednesday, 2 June 2010
May 22nd club. June 1st
Castlenel.
This is the night before Gavin's funeral.
i feel upset and weird yet determind to keep the routine going as routine really does help.
John chose the last few lines of
" Frost as Midnight"
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness,
or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
of mossy apple tree, while the nigh thatch
smokes in the sun thaw; whether the eave drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles
Quietly shining in the quiet moon
I felt the need to cheer us up so I read a passage from "Whatever makes you Happy"
by william sutcliffe
Carol Mat t's mother arrived out of the blue, a most unusual event,and Matt's rather nervously to hear what has brought her here.
"Well" she said,allowing her body the slightest of yields to the temptations of modern upholstery,"I've been having a long hard think and you are my only child,and..."
"Is somebody ill?!Are you ok that matt had ever heard.
"I'm fine,everyone is fine.I am just trying to say that I feel as if our relationship has fizzled away to nothing. I don't think i know you anymore.And i would like to rectify that."
this was the scariest Matt had ever heard.The hairs on his neck prickled and his tongue went numb.Maori war dances were less frightening.
"So I thought maybe i would move in for a few days",continued Carol."You've got a spare room. I won't be any trouble.in fact,I'll help out.This place could do with a tidy.just a week or so.Untill we know who each other is again.I thought if i said it on the phone you wouldn't understand,and you'd think of some excuse,so i decided to just turn up"
Carol downed the rest of her wine in a single gulp."I'm dog tired" she continued"mind if I turn in?"
and with that ,she stood and made for the spare room,pausing on the way to pick up a capacious abg she had concealed under a draped raincoat."I am sure we won't be bored," she said perkily,shutting the door behind her.
matt was too shocked to respond,or even move.He realised that his mouth ws open,but no sound had emerged.
Of all the apocalyptic scenarios that had been running through his mind since her arrival,this was one he had never even begun to imagine.
What on earth could have prompted this?
A week?
She came out of the spare room a minute or so later,wearing a nightie,clutching a faded purple sponge-bag mattvaguely recognised,and gave him a quick thin smile as she walked rapidly passed.As she was closing the bathroom door,Matt heard himself himself stuttering,"But wwhat about Dad?"
"Seven frozen lasanges,"
The door clicked shut and locked.
When she re-emerged,the sight of his Mother's legs renderded Matt speechless,as she disappeared into the bedroom before a word of protest passed her lips.
This is the night before Gavin's funeral.
i feel upset and weird yet determind to keep the routine going as routine really does help.
John chose the last few lines of
" Frost as Midnight"
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness,
or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
of mossy apple tree, while the nigh thatch
smokes in the sun thaw; whether the eave drops fall
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles
Quietly shining in the quiet moon
I felt the need to cheer us up so I read a passage from "Whatever makes you Happy"
by william sutcliffe
Carol Mat t's mother arrived out of the blue, a most unusual event,and Matt's rather nervously to hear what has brought her here.
"Well" she said,allowing her body the slightest of yields to the temptations of modern upholstery,"I've been having a long hard think and you are my only child,and..."
"Is somebody ill?!Are you ok that matt had ever heard.
"I'm fine,everyone is fine.I am just trying to say that I feel as if our relationship has fizzled away to nothing. I don't think i know you anymore.And i would like to rectify that."
this was the scariest Matt had ever heard.The hairs on his neck prickled and his tongue went numb.Maori war dances were less frightening.
"So I thought maybe i would move in for a few days",continued Carol."You've got a spare room. I won't be any trouble.in fact,I'll help out.This place could do with a tidy.just a week or so.Untill we know who each other is again.I thought if i said it on the phone you wouldn't understand,and you'd think of some excuse,so i decided to just turn up"
Carol downed the rest of her wine in a single gulp."I'm dog tired" she continued"mind if I turn in?"
and with that ,she stood and made for the spare room,pausing on the way to pick up a capacious abg she had concealed under a draped raincoat."I am sure we won't be bored," she said perkily,shutting the door behind her.
matt was too shocked to respond,or even move.He realised that his mouth ws open,but no sound had emerged.
Of all the apocalyptic scenarios that had been running through his mind since her arrival,this was one he had never even begun to imagine.
What on earth could have prompted this?
A week?
She came out of the spare room a minute or so later,wearing a nightie,clutching a faded purple sponge-bag mattvaguely recognised,and gave him a quick thin smile as she walked rapidly passed.As she was closing the bathroom door,Matt heard himself himself stuttering,"But wwhat about Dad?"
"Seven frozen lasanges,"
The door clicked shut and locked.
When she re-emerged,the sight of his Mother's legs renderded Matt speechless,as she disappeared into the bedroom before a word of protest passed her lips.
Tuesday, 1 June 2010
May 31st. May 22nd Club
Los Angeles
I have been so sad all day I listened to some old favourite pieces of music and found it so powerful for evoking feelings and memories.
I thought this passage from "simple abundance" on loss, was right for tonight May 22nd club.
October 18
Loss as muse. Loss as character.Loss as Life.
Sarah Ban Breathnach begins by talking about a group of woman who go off on a day trip by plane,sadly they never come back because the planne crashes.
" If we are alive,we cannot escape loss.Loss is part of real life."Have you ever thought,when something dreadful happens,a moment ago things were not like this; let it be then and not now,anything but know?" the English novelist Mary Stewart asks."And you try and try to remake then,but you know you can't. So you hold try to hold the moment quite still and not let it move on and show itself."
Today might be tough for you.You might not want the next moment to show itself,to reveal the twists and turns of life's mystery. But at least you have it.You still have life.A choice as to how you will live this precious day.
Don't wish it away.Don't waste it.For the love of all that is holy,redeem one hour.Hold it close.Cherish it.Above all,be grateful foor it. Let your thanksgiving rise above the din of dissapointment--opportunities lost,mistakes made,the clamor of all that has not yet come.
And if today is so horrendous that the gift doen.t seem worth acknowledging,if you can't find one moment to enjoy,one simple pleasure to savor,one friend to call,one person to love,one thing to share,one smile to offer;if life is so difficult that you don't want to bother living it to the fullest,then don't live today for yourself.
Live it for Nancy,Cheryl,Valerie,kathleen,Gilda,Elizabeth,Patricia( and may I add ) Gavin.
We talked about the truth in this passage and cried a little more.
Then John thought is was time for some Burn's poetry and what better that Tam o 'Shanter.to bring a little laughter to the May 22nd club this evening.
When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak the gate,
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses).
O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder wi' the Miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on
The Smith and thee gat roarin' fou on;
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday,
She prophesied that late or soon,
Thou wad be found, deep drown'd in Doon,
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi reaming sAats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony:
Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better:
The Landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The Landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy.
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the Rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm. -
Nae man can tether Time nor Tide,
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The deil had business on his hand.
Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet,
Whiles glow'rin round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
By this time he was cross the ford,
Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.
Before him Doon pours all his floods,
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods,
The lightnings flash from pole to pole,
Near and more near the thunders roll,
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze,
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle,
But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventur'd forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance:
Nae cotillon, brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. -
But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench and waulie
That night enlisted in the core,
Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore;
(For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear);
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!
But here my Muse her wing maun cour,
Sic flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane bewithc'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd:
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a thegither,
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied.
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.
Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin!
In hell, they'll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stone o' the brig;^1
There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the keystane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle!
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:
Whene'er to Drink you are inclin'd,
Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear;
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
We were able to laugh talk about "cutty sark"- short shirt-- or the winsome wich.
And remember with great affection my beloved Grandfather who recited this poem with a genuine scots tongue and great myrth
I have been so sad all day I listened to some old favourite pieces of music and found it so powerful for evoking feelings and memories.
I thought this passage from "simple abundance" on loss, was right for tonight May 22nd club.
October 18
Loss as muse. Loss as character.Loss as Life.
Sarah Ban Breathnach begins by talking about a group of woman who go off on a day trip by plane,sadly they never come back because the planne crashes.
" If we are alive,we cannot escape loss.Loss is part of real life."Have you ever thought,when something dreadful happens,a moment ago things were not like this; let it be then and not now,anything but know?" the English novelist Mary Stewart asks."And you try and try to remake then,but you know you can't. So you hold try to hold the moment quite still and not let it move on and show itself."
Today might be tough for you.You might not want the next moment to show itself,to reveal the twists and turns of life's mystery. But at least you have it.You still have life.A choice as to how you will live this precious day.
Don't wish it away.Don't waste it.For the love of all that is holy,redeem one hour.Hold it close.Cherish it.Above all,be grateful foor it. Let your thanksgiving rise above the din of dissapointment--opportunities lost,mistakes made,the clamor of all that has not yet come.
And if today is so horrendous that the gift doen.t seem worth acknowledging,if you can't find one moment to enjoy,one simple pleasure to savor,one friend to call,one person to love,one thing to share,one smile to offer;if life is so difficult that you don't want to bother living it to the fullest,then don't live today for yourself.
Live it for Nancy,Cheryl,Valerie,kathleen,Gilda,Elizabeth,Patricia( and may I add ) Gavin.
We talked about the truth in this passage and cried a little more.
Then John thought is was time for some Burn's poetry and what better that Tam o 'Shanter.to bring a little laughter to the May 22nd club this evening.
When chapman billies leave the street,
And drouthy neibors, neibors, meet;
As market days are wearing late,
And folk begin to tak the gate,
While we sit bousing at the nappy,
An' getting fou and unco happy,
We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and stiles,
That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky, sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.
This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter,
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter:
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses,
For honest men and bonie lasses).
O Tam! had'st thou but been sae wise,
As taen thy ain wife Kate's advice!
She tauld thee weel thou was a skellum,
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum;
That frae November till October,
Ae market-day thou was na sober;
That ilka melder wi' the Miller,
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller;
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on
The Smith and thee gat roarin' fou on;
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday,
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday,
She prophesied that late or soon,
Thou wad be found, deep drown'd in Doon,
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk,
By Alloway's auld, haunted kirk.
Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet,
To think how mony counsels sweet,
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices,
The husband frae the wife despises!
But to our tale: Ae market night,
Tam had got planted unco right,
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely,
Wi reaming sAats, that drank divinely;
And at his elbow, Souter Johnie,
His ancient, trusty, drougthy crony:
Tam lo'ed him like a very brither;
They had been fou for weeks thegither.
The night drave on wi' sangs an' clatter;
And aye the ale was growing better:
The Landlady and Tam grew gracious,
Wi' favours secret, sweet, and precious:
The Souter tauld his queerest stories;
The Landlord's laugh was ready chorus:
The storm without might rair and rustle,
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle.
Care, mad to see a man sae happy,
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy.
As bees flee hame wi' lades o' treasure,
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure:
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious,
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious!
But pleasures are like poppies spread,
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed;
Or like the snow falls in the river,
A moment white-then melts for ever;
Or like the Borealis race,
That flit ere you can point their place;
Or like the Rainbow's lovely form
Evanishing amid the storm. -
Nae man can tether Time nor Tide,
The hour approaches Tam maun ride;
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane,
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in;
And sic a night he taks the road in,
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in.
The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last;
The rattling showers rose on the blast;
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd;
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd:
That night, a child might understand,
The deil had business on his hand.
Weel-mounted on his grey mare, Meg,
A better never lifted leg,
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire,
Despising wind, and rain, and fire;
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet,
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scots sonnet,
Whiles glow'rin round wi' prudent cares,
Lest bogles catch him unawares;
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh,
Where ghaists and houlets nightly cry.
By this time he was cross the ford,
Where in the snaw the chapman smoor'd;
And past the birks and meikle stane,
Where drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane;
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn,
Where hunters fand the murder'd bairn;
And near the thorn, aboon the well,
Where Mungo's mither hang'd hersel'.
Before him Doon pours all his floods,
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods,
The lightnings flash from pole to pole,
Near and more near the thunders roll,
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees,
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze,
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing,
And loud resounded mirth and dancing.
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers thou canst make us scorn!
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil;
Wi' usquabae, we'll face the devil!
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle,
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle,
But Maggie stood, right sair astonish'd,
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd,
She ventur'd forward on the light;
And, wow! Tam saw an unco sight!
Warlocks and witches in a dance:
Nae cotillon, brent new frae France,
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels,
Put life and mettle in their heels.
A winnock-bunker in the east,
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast;
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large,
To gie them music was his charge:
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl,
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. -
But Tam kent what was what fu' brawlie:
There was ae winsome wench and waulie
That night enlisted in the core,
Lang after ken'd on Carrick shore;
(For mony a beast to dead she shot,
And perish'd mony a bonie boat,
And shook baith meikle corn and bear,
And kept the country-side in fear);
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn,
That while a lassie she had worn,
In longitude tho' sorely scanty,
It was her best, and she was vauntie.
Ah! little ken'd thy reverend grannie,
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie,
Wi twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches),
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches!
But here my Muse her wing maun cour,
Sic flights are far beyond her power;
To sing how Nannie lap and flang,
(A souple jade she was and strang),
And how Tam stood, like ane bewithc'd,
And thought his very een enrich'd:
Even Satan glowr'd, and fidg'd fu' fain,
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main:
Till first ae caper, syne anither,
Tam tint his reason a thegither,
And roars out, "Weel done, Cutty-sark!"
And in an instant all was dark:
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied.
When out the hellish legion sallied.
As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke,
When plundering herds assail their byke;
As open pussie's mortal foes,
When, pop! she starts before their nose;
As eager runs the market-crowd,
When "Catch the thief!" resounds aloud;
So Maggie runs, the witches follow,
Wi' mony an eldritch skreich and hollow.
Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin!
In hell, they'll roast thee like a herrin!
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin!
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman!
Now, do thy speedy-utmost, Meg,
And win the key-stone o' the brig;^1
There, at them thou thy tail may toss,
A running stream they dare na cross.
But ere the keystane she could make,
The fient a tail she had to shake!
For Nannie, far before the rest,
Hard upon noble Maggie prest,
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle;
But little wist she Maggie's mettle!
Ae spring brought off her master hale,
But left behind her ain grey tail:
The carlin claught her by the rump,
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump.
Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read,
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed:
Whene'er to Drink you are inclin'd,
Or Cutty-sarks rin in your mind,
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear;
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare.
We were able to laugh talk about "cutty sark"- short shirt-- or the winsome wich.
And remember with great affection my beloved Grandfather who recited this poem with a genuine scots tongue and great myrth
Monday, 31 May 2010
May 22nd club, 9th day 8th sharing.
Los Angeles.
John just opened my Auden's selected peoms,the book fell opened at this poem,which on reflection feels appropriate,because Susan told her grand-daughter the her grand-father had gone to the stars.
I was told my grandfather was the brightest star in the sky and I always looked for the brightest star and remembered him.
W.H. Auden
Listen (to Auden read)
A cloudless night like this
Can set the spirit soaring:
After a tiring day
The clockwork spectacle is
Impressive in a slightly boring
Eighteenth-century way.
It soothed adolescence a lot
To meet so shamelesss a stare;
The things I did could not
Be so shocking as they said
If that would still be there
After the shocked were dead
Now, unready to die
Bur already at the stage
When one starts to resent the young,
I am glad those points in the sky
May also be counted among
The creatures of middle-age.
It’s cosier thinking of night
As more an Old People’s Home
Than a shed for a faultless machine,
That the red pre-Cambrian light
Is gone like Imperial Rome
Or myself at seventeen.
Yet however much we may like
The stoic manner in which
The classical authors wrote,
Only the young and rich
Have the nerve or the figure to strike
The lacrimae rerum note.
For the present stalks abroad
Like the past and its wronged again
Whimper and are ignored,
And the truth cannot be hid;
Somebody chose their pain,
What needn’t have happened did.
Occuring this very night
By no established rule,
Some event may already have hurled
Its first little No at the right
Of the laws we accept to school
Our post-diluvian world:
But the stars burn on overhead,
Unconscious of final ends,
As I walk home to bed,
Asking what judgment waits
My person, all my friends,
And these United States.
We both agree that Auden is surprising funny.
I chose to read from John's favourite book since his childhood.I chose this because I love him, and wanted to choose something he would enjoy.
I watched Beatrix Potter to-day ,it of course told the story of her great loss ,it seems everywhere we look right now we see loss and grief.
However her stories and her art and uplifting and full of fun.
The Tailor of Gloucester.
The sun was shining on the snow when the tailor got up and dressed,and came out into the street with Simpkin running before him.
The starlings whistled on the chimney stacks,and the throstles and robins sang--
but they sang their own little noises,not the words they had sung in the night.
"Alack" said the tailor,"I have my twist; but no more strength--nor time-- than will serve to make me one single button-hole; for this is Christmas Day in the Morning!
The Mayor of Gloucester shall be married by noon--and where is his cherry-coloured coat?"
He unlocked the door of the little shop in Westgate Street,and Simpkin ran in,like a cat that expects something,
But there was no one there! Not even one little brown mouse!
The boards swept clean; the little ends of thread and the little silk snippets were all tidied away,and gone from off the floor.
But upon the table--oh joy! the tailor gave a shout--there,where he had left cuttings of silk--there lay the most beautifullest coat and embroidered satin waistcoat that ever was worn by a mayor of Gloucester.
There were roses and pansies upon the facings of the coat;and the waistcoat was worked with poppies and corn-flowers.
Everything was finished except just one single cherry-coloured button-hole,and where the button-hole was wanting there was pinned a scrap of paper with these words
--in little teeny weeny writing----no more twist.
and from then began the luck of the Tailor of Gloucester;he grew quite stout,and he grew quite rich.
He made the most wonderful waistcoats for all the rich merchants of Gloucester,and for all the fine gentlemen of the counrty round.
Never were seen such ruffles, or such embroidered cuffs and lappets!But his button-holes were the greatest triumph of it all.
The stitches of those button-holes were so neat----SO neat---I wonder how they could be stiched by an old man in spectacles,with crooked old fingers,and a tailors thimble.
The stiches of those button-holes were so small----SO small---they looked as if they had been made by little mice.
A wee reminder in difficult times---that all's well that ends well---and the one unmade button, left by the mice reminds us of what the Mores say---only Ala is perfect.
John just opened my Auden's selected peoms,the book fell opened at this poem,which on reflection feels appropriate,because Susan told her grand-daughter the her grand-father had gone to the stars.
I was told my grandfather was the brightest star in the sky and I always looked for the brightest star and remembered him.
W.H. Auden
Listen (to Auden read)
A cloudless night like this
Can set the spirit soaring:
After a tiring day
The clockwork spectacle is
Impressive in a slightly boring
Eighteenth-century way.
It soothed adolescence a lot
To meet so shamelesss a stare;
The things I did could not
Be so shocking as they said
If that would still be there
After the shocked were dead
Now, unready to die
Bur already at the stage
When one starts to resent the young,
I am glad those points in the sky
May also be counted among
The creatures of middle-age.
It’s cosier thinking of night
As more an Old People’s Home
Than a shed for a faultless machine,
That the red pre-Cambrian light
Is gone like Imperial Rome
Or myself at seventeen.
Yet however much we may like
The stoic manner in which
The classical authors wrote,
Only the young and rich
Have the nerve or the figure to strike
The lacrimae rerum note.
For the present stalks abroad
Like the past and its wronged again
Whimper and are ignored,
And the truth cannot be hid;
Somebody chose their pain,
What needn’t have happened did.
Occuring this very night
By no established rule,
Some event may already have hurled
Its first little No at the right
Of the laws we accept to school
Our post-diluvian world:
But the stars burn on overhead,
Unconscious of final ends,
As I walk home to bed,
Asking what judgment waits
My person, all my friends,
And these United States.
We both agree that Auden is surprising funny.
I chose to read from John's favourite book since his childhood.I chose this because I love him, and wanted to choose something he would enjoy.
I watched Beatrix Potter to-day ,it of course told the story of her great loss ,it seems everywhere we look right now we see loss and grief.
However her stories and her art and uplifting and full of fun.
The Tailor of Gloucester.
The sun was shining on the snow when the tailor got up and dressed,and came out into the street with Simpkin running before him.
The starlings whistled on the chimney stacks,and the throstles and robins sang--
but they sang their own little noises,not the words they had sung in the night.
"Alack" said the tailor,"I have my twist; but no more strength--nor time-- than will serve to make me one single button-hole; for this is Christmas Day in the Morning!
The Mayor of Gloucester shall be married by noon--and where is his cherry-coloured coat?"
He unlocked the door of the little shop in Westgate Street,and Simpkin ran in,like a cat that expects something,
But there was no one there! Not even one little brown mouse!
The boards swept clean; the little ends of thread and the little silk snippets were all tidied away,and gone from off the floor.
But upon the table--oh joy! the tailor gave a shout--there,where he had left cuttings of silk--there lay the most beautifullest coat and embroidered satin waistcoat that ever was worn by a mayor of Gloucester.
There were roses and pansies upon the facings of the coat;and the waistcoat was worked with poppies and corn-flowers.
Everything was finished except just one single cherry-coloured button-hole,and where the button-hole was wanting there was pinned a scrap of paper with these words
--in little teeny weeny writing----no more twist.
and from then began the luck of the Tailor of Gloucester;he grew quite stout,and he grew quite rich.
He made the most wonderful waistcoats for all the rich merchants of Gloucester,and for all the fine gentlemen of the counrty round.
Never were seen such ruffles, or such embroidered cuffs and lappets!But his button-holes were the greatest triumph of it all.
The stitches of those button-holes were so neat----SO neat---I wonder how they could be stiched by an old man in spectacles,with crooked old fingers,and a tailors thimble.
The stiches of those button-holes were so small----SO small---they looked as if they had been made by little mice.
A wee reminder in difficult times---that all's well that ends well---and the one unmade button, left by the mice reminds us of what the Mores say---only Ala is perfect.
May 29 May 22nd club.
We did not have a meeting today,our dear friend of 43 years died today!
"Lead kindly Light" JL
"Even if I go through the deepest darkness" HC
"Lead kindly Light" JL
"Even if I go through the deepest darkness" HC
May 28 part 2 May 22nd club.
I found a book which was given to ue by a young woman who shared our home Seven Sisters in Liverpool.
her inscription was written in September 25th 1988.
Dear Helen and John
thankyou for everything
I'll always remember Seven sisters with lots of warmth and love
( the a little hebrew phrase)
Love N.
John and I were touched to read this and talked about N for a while with fond memories and a pride that she is now a beautiful woman,a wife a mother and counsellor.
The book was Highland Dress ( a King Penguin Book) pubished in 1948
I chose to read of The Stewart tartan because it is John's tartan and the Buchanan because it is my tartan.
The text refers to pictures which are in this wonderful little book.
Plate 1
Stewart or Royal
Mc Ian has appropriately enough chosen to represent the Stewart tartan by portraying Prince Charles Edward Stewart,"the Young Pretender!, taken from a contemporary miniture.The prince is seen here at the height of his career when he held Royal Court in Edinburgh in September 1745.There are several different Stewart setts,including the Hunting and the Stewart of Appin. Royal Stewart was never a clan
tartan,but the Royal tartan.It is worn by the Pipers of the Scots Guards. it was described by the late King George V as "my personal tartan",but His Majesty King George V1 on formal occassions prefers to wear a tartan knows as the Balmoral sett,which was designed by the Prince Consort and is reserved for the use of the royal Family.
Plate 18
BUCHANAN
This striking figure of a cadet of the Chief of Clan Buchanan is seen wearing the kilt as it has been worn since the repeal of the Act prohibiting the wearing of Highland dress in 1782 The full-sized plaid is separate and is not now used,but in other respects,expect in detail,surprisingly few changes have taken place.The Buchanan country was Loch lomondside,but the clan is now without a chief,and its lands are possessed by the Duke of Montrose,who is himself Chief of Clan Graham.
strangely comforting reading about the land of your birth.
her inscription was written in September 25th 1988.
Dear Helen and John
thankyou for everything
I'll always remember Seven sisters with lots of warmth and love
( the a little hebrew phrase)
Love N.
John and I were touched to read this and talked about N for a while with fond memories and a pride that she is now a beautiful woman,a wife a mother and counsellor.
The book was Highland Dress ( a King Penguin Book) pubished in 1948
I chose to read of The Stewart tartan because it is John's tartan and the Buchanan because it is my tartan.
The text refers to pictures which are in this wonderful little book.
Plate 1
Stewart or Royal
Mc Ian has appropriately enough chosen to represent the Stewart tartan by portraying Prince Charles Edward Stewart,"the Young Pretender!, taken from a contemporary miniture.The prince is seen here at the height of his career when he held Royal Court in Edinburgh in September 1745.There are several different Stewart setts,including the Hunting and the Stewart of Appin. Royal Stewart was never a clan
tartan,but the Royal tartan.It is worn by the Pipers of the Scots Guards. it was described by the late King George V as "my personal tartan",but His Majesty King George V1 on formal occassions prefers to wear a tartan knows as the Balmoral sett,which was designed by the Prince Consort and is reserved for the use of the royal Family.
Plate 18
BUCHANAN
This striking figure of a cadet of the Chief of Clan Buchanan is seen wearing the kilt as it has been worn since the repeal of the Act prohibiting the wearing of Highland dress in 1782 The full-sized plaid is separate and is not now used,but in other respects,expect in detail,surprisingly few changes have taken place.The Buchanan country was Loch lomondside,but the clan is now without a chief,and its lands are possessed by the Duke of Montrose,who is himself Chief of Clan Graham.
strangely comforting reading about the land of your birth.
May 28th
Los Angeles
We both feel we are in waiting period and feel tense.
John found this in the Golden Treasury of Irish Poetry
The poem is in Irish but this is the introduction and the translation.
this meditive monk for so long ago help soothe us.
Scholar and his cat.
The early 9th centuary poem was found scribbled on a manuscript in Austria and bacame justly famous. The whole of the scholar's life is reflected in its gentle,meditave humour,and many scores of literary cats have since andwered to the name of Pangar.
Poem
Myself and White Pangar are each at his own trade:he has him mind on hunting,my mond is on my own task.
Better than any fame I prefer peace with my book,pursuing knowledge; White Pangar does not envy me,he loves his own childish trade.
a tale without boredom when we are at home alone,we ahve interminable fun-- something on wich to exercise our skill.
Sometimes ,after desperate battles,a mouse is caught on his net; as for me there falls some difficult law hard to comprehend.
he points his clear bright eye against a wall; I points my own clear one ,feeble as it is,against the power of knowledge.
He is happy and darts around when a mouse sticks in his sharp claw,and i am happy understanding some dear, difficult problem.
however long we are like that,neither disturbs the other;each of us loves his trade and enjoys it alone.
The job he does every day is the one for which he is fit; as I am compentent at my own job,bringing darkness to light.
From a manuscript preserved in the monastery of St Paul in Carinthia.
We both feel we are in waiting period and feel tense.
John found this in the Golden Treasury of Irish Poetry
The poem is in Irish but this is the introduction and the translation.
this meditive monk for so long ago help soothe us.
Scholar and his cat.
The early 9th centuary poem was found scribbled on a manuscript in Austria and bacame justly famous. The whole of the scholar's life is reflected in its gentle,meditave humour,and many scores of literary cats have since andwered to the name of Pangar.
Poem
Myself and White Pangar are each at his own trade:he has him mind on hunting,my mond is on my own task.
Better than any fame I prefer peace with my book,pursuing knowledge; White Pangar does not envy me,he loves his own childish trade.
a tale without boredom when we are at home alone,we ahve interminable fun-- something on wich to exercise our skill.
Sometimes ,after desperate battles,a mouse is caught on his net; as for me there falls some difficult law hard to comprehend.
he points his clear bright eye against a wall; I points my own clear one ,feeble as it is,against the power of knowledge.
He is happy and darts around when a mouse sticks in his sharp claw,and i am happy understanding some dear, difficult problem.
however long we are like that,neither disturbs the other;each of us loves his trade and enjoys it alone.
The job he does every day is the one for which he is fit; as I am compentent at my own job,bringing darkness to light.
From a manuscript preserved in the monastery of St Paul in Carinthia.
May 27th May 22nd club
Kitchen Castlenel
Feeling sad as our friend is getting sicker by the day.
John opened some chilled 95 . We had nothing prepared but I thought it would be good to tell each other the story of a movie we liked.
I started and told the story of one on my Mum's favourite old movies.
Imitation of Life.
Story of a successful movie star ,her daughter and her friend and maid ,(black woman)and her daughter.
Whose life was real? I cried telling the story!
John told me the story of Wargames.
A movie he enjoyes because it is a period piece and because in many way it still feels relevant,and beacuse the name of the family in the movie are "The Lightmans" the name our five children gave themselves.
It was a good thing to do we both enjoyed it and think it will be part of May 22nd club in future evenings.
Feeling sad as our friend is getting sicker by the day.
John opened some chilled 95 . We had nothing prepared but I thought it would be good to tell each other the story of a movie we liked.
I started and told the story of one on my Mum's favourite old movies.
Imitation of Life.
Story of a successful movie star ,her daughter and her friend and maid ,(black woman)and her daughter.
Whose life was real? I cried telling the story!
John told me the story of Wargames.
A movie he enjoyes because it is a period piece and because in many way it still feels relevant,and beacuse the name of the family in the movie are "The Lightmans" the name our five children gave themselves.
It was a good thing to do we both enjoyed it and think it will be part of May 22nd club in future evenings.
May 26th May 22nd club
We sat in the town square in Castalla in the sunshine for our meeting tonight.
I was feeling sorrowful because my dear friend is so ill.
and my folks are frail ,mum in care,dad adjusting to this new way of life.
A friend in LA sent me shakspears quote
"When sorrows come they come not as single spies but in battalions" Hamlet
This pretty much sums up what I have been feeling,John and I talked through what we felt the meaning of this quote was, and it was good,helped me know for sure I must stay in Castalla a bit longer take care of myself and rest.
John chose a wonderful passage from Douglas Adams
This made us both laugh out loud,it amazes me how i can be so sad and still be cheered thank goodness for the human spirit,John and Douglas Adams
The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul
Douglas Adams
Chap1
It can hardly be a coincidence that no language on earth has ever produced the expression 'As pretty as an airport'.
Airports are ugly. Some are very ugly.Some attain a degree of ugliness that can only be the result of a special effort. This ugliness arises because airports are full of people who are tired, cross and have just discovered that their luggage has landed in Murmansk. (Murmansk is the only known exception in this otherwise infallible rule) and architects have on the whole tried to reflect this in their designs.
They have tried to highlight the tiredness and crossness motif with brutal shapes and nerve jangling colours, to make effortless the business of separating the traveller from his or her luggage or loved ones, to confuse the traveller with arrows that appear to point at the windows, distant tie racks or the current position of Ursa Minor in the night sky,and wherever possible to expose the plumbing on the grounds that it is functional and conceal the position of the departure gates, presumably on the grounds that they are not.
Caught in the middle of a sea of hazy light and a sea of hazy noise, Kate Schechter stood and doubted.
All the way out of London to Heathrow she had suffered from doubt. She was not a suprstitious person or even a religious person, she was simply a person who was not at all sure she should be flying to Norway. She was finding it increasingly easy to believe that God,if there was a God, and if it was remotely possible that any Godlike being who could order the disposition of particles at the creation of the universe would also be interested in directing traffic on the M4, did not want her to fly to Norway either. All the trouble with the tickets, finding a next door neighbour to look after the cat, then finding the cat so that it could be looked after by the next door neighbour, the sudden leak in the roof, the missing wallet, the weather, the unexpected death of the next door neighbour, the pregnancy of the cat – it all had the semblance of an orchestrated campaign of obstruction which had begun to assume Godlike proportions.
Even the taxi driver- when eventually she had found a taxi driver- had said,'Norway? What do you want to go there for?' And when she had instantly said 'the Aurora Borealis' or 'Fiords!' but had looked doubtful for a moment and bitten her lip, he had said, 'I know. I bet its some bloke dragging you out there. Tell you what. Tell him to stuff it. Go to Teneriffe.'
:-)
I was feeling sorrowful because my dear friend is so ill.
and my folks are frail ,mum in care,dad adjusting to this new way of life.
A friend in LA sent me shakspears quote
"When sorrows come they come not as single spies but in battalions" Hamlet
This pretty much sums up what I have been feeling,John and I talked through what we felt the meaning of this quote was, and it was good,helped me know for sure I must stay in Castalla a bit longer take care of myself and rest.
John chose a wonderful passage from Douglas Adams
This made us both laugh out loud,it amazes me how i can be so sad and still be cheered thank goodness for the human spirit,John and Douglas Adams
The Long Dark Teatime of the Soul
Douglas Adams
Chap1
It can hardly be a coincidence that no language on earth has ever produced the expression 'As pretty as an airport'.
Airports are ugly. Some are very ugly.Some attain a degree of ugliness that can only be the result of a special effort. This ugliness arises because airports are full of people who are tired, cross and have just discovered that their luggage has landed in Murmansk. (Murmansk is the only known exception in this otherwise infallible rule) and architects have on the whole tried to reflect this in their designs.
They have tried to highlight the tiredness and crossness motif with brutal shapes and nerve jangling colours, to make effortless the business of separating the traveller from his or her luggage or loved ones, to confuse the traveller with arrows that appear to point at the windows, distant tie racks or the current position of Ursa Minor in the night sky,and wherever possible to expose the plumbing on the grounds that it is functional and conceal the position of the departure gates, presumably on the grounds that they are not.
Caught in the middle of a sea of hazy light and a sea of hazy noise, Kate Schechter stood and doubted.
All the way out of London to Heathrow she had suffered from doubt. She was not a suprstitious person or even a religious person, she was simply a person who was not at all sure she should be flying to Norway. She was finding it increasingly easy to believe that God,if there was a God, and if it was remotely possible that any Godlike being who could order the disposition of particles at the creation of the universe would also be interested in directing traffic on the M4, did not want her to fly to Norway either. All the trouble with the tickets, finding a next door neighbour to look after the cat, then finding the cat so that it could be looked after by the next door neighbour, the sudden leak in the roof, the missing wallet, the weather, the unexpected death of the next door neighbour, the pregnancy of the cat – it all had the semblance of an orchestrated campaign of obstruction which had begun to assume Godlike proportions.
Even the taxi driver- when eventually she had found a taxi driver- had said,'Norway? What do you want to go there for?' And when she had instantly said 'the Aurora Borealis' or 'Fiords!' but had looked doubtful for a moment and bitten her lip, he had said, 'I know. I bet its some bloke dragging you out there. Tell you what. Tell him to stuff it. Go to Teneriffe.'
:-)
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
4th meeting May 22nd Club
Los Angeles
Castlenel.
25.05.10
We collected Fergal today ,and took him to the car wash and gave him a well deserved clean.
Seeing the car going through the wash reminded me of the day we collected the car in Ennis in County Clare in 2004. We drove from County Clare to County Galway for the launch of John 0' Donohue's book Divine Beauty.
I went in search of the book this evening and came across this Spanish Proverb.
"There is nothing as beautiful as the sadness of one who is blind in Granada."
This lead to an interesting discussion on the meaning of this proverb, and the way connections happen. eg collecting the car in Castalla ,memory of John's launch in Ireland,and finding a Spanish proverb in and Irish book.
Johns choice was
The Labyrinth
Anthropos apteros for days
Walked whistling round and round the Maze,
Relying happily upon
His temperment for getting on.
The hundreth time he sighted, though,
A bush he left an hour ago,
He halted where four alleys crossed,
And recognized that he was lost.
"Where am I?" Metaphysics says
No question can be asked unless
It has an answer, so I can
Assume this maze has got a plan.
If theologians are correct,
A Plan implies an Architect:
A God-built maze would be, I'm sure,
The Universe in minature.
Are data from the world of Sense,
In that case, valid evidence?
What in the universe I know
Can give directions how to go?
All Mathematics would suggest
A steady straight line as the best,
But left and right alternately
Is consonant with History.
Aesthetics, though, believes all Art
Intends to gratify the heart:
Rejecting disciplines like these,
Must I, then, go which way I please?
Such reasoning is only true
If we accept the classic view,
Which we have no right to assert,
According to the Introvert.
His absolute pre-supposition
Is - Man creates his own condition:
This maze was not divinely built,
But is secreted by my guilt.
The centre that I cannot find
Is known to my unconscious Mind;
I have no reason to despair
Because I am already there.
My problem is how not to will;
They move most quickly who stand still;
I'm only lost until I see
I'm lost because I want to be.
If this should fail, perhaps I should,
As certain educators would,
Content myself with the conclusion;
In theory there is no solution.
All statements about what I feel,
Like I-am-lost, are quite unreal:
My knowledge ends where it began;
A hedge is taller than a man."
Anthropos apteros, perplexed
To know which turning to take next,
Looked up and wished he were a bird
To whom such doubts must seem absurd.
WH Auden
We enjoyed Auden's humourous look and Man's plight,and his everlasting search for "the answer"
Castlenel.
25.05.10
We collected Fergal today ,and took him to the car wash and gave him a well deserved clean.
Seeing the car going through the wash reminded me of the day we collected the car in Ennis in County Clare in 2004. We drove from County Clare to County Galway for the launch of John 0' Donohue's book Divine Beauty.
I went in search of the book this evening and came across this Spanish Proverb.
"There is nothing as beautiful as the sadness of one who is blind in Granada."
This lead to an interesting discussion on the meaning of this proverb, and the way connections happen. eg collecting the car in Castalla ,memory of John's launch in Ireland,and finding a Spanish proverb in and Irish book.
Johns choice was
The Labyrinth
Anthropos apteros for days
Walked whistling round and round the Maze,
Relying happily upon
His temperment for getting on.
The hundreth time he sighted, though,
A bush he left an hour ago,
He halted where four alleys crossed,
And recognized that he was lost.
"Where am I?" Metaphysics says
No question can be asked unless
It has an answer, so I can
Assume this maze has got a plan.
If theologians are correct,
A Plan implies an Architect:
A God-built maze would be, I'm sure,
The Universe in minature.
Are data from the world of Sense,
In that case, valid evidence?
What in the universe I know
Can give directions how to go?
All Mathematics would suggest
A steady straight line as the best,
But left and right alternately
Is consonant with History.
Aesthetics, though, believes all Art
Intends to gratify the heart:
Rejecting disciplines like these,
Must I, then, go which way I please?
Such reasoning is only true
If we accept the classic view,
Which we have no right to assert,
According to the Introvert.
His absolute pre-supposition
Is - Man creates his own condition:
This maze was not divinely built,
But is secreted by my guilt.
The centre that I cannot find
Is known to my unconscious Mind;
I have no reason to despair
Because I am already there.
My problem is how not to will;
They move most quickly who stand still;
I'm only lost until I see
I'm lost because I want to be.
If this should fail, perhaps I should,
As certain educators would,
Content myself with the conclusion;
In theory there is no solution.
All statements about what I feel,
Like I-am-lost, are quite unreal:
My knowledge ends where it began;
A hedge is taller than a man."
Anthropos apteros, perplexed
To know which turning to take next,
Looked up and wished he were a bird
To whom such doubts must seem absurd.
WH Auden
We enjoyed Auden's humourous look and Man's plight,and his everlasting search for "the answer"
Tuesday, 25 May 2010
Day 3 May 22nd Club Castlenel Castalla part 2
I chose a wonderful passage from "The Bonesetter's Daughter"
Amy Tan takes me into the world of 1930's rural china and the fascinating art of making ink.
After a long trip from the country Luling visits her father's shop to see where the ink is sold.
Then Little Uncle brought us hot tea and sweet oranges,as well as bamboo latticework fans with which to cool ourselves.
I tried to notice everything so I could later tell GaoLing what I had seen,nd tease out her envy.The floors of the shop were of dark wood,polished and clean,no dirty footprints,even though this was during the dustiest pert of the summer.
And along the walls were display cases made of wood and glass.The glass was very shiny and not one pane was broken.Within those glass cases were our silk-wrapped boxes,all our hard work.They looked so much nicer that they had in the ink-making studio at Immortal Heart village.
I saw that Father had opened several of the boxes.He set sticks and cakes and other shapes on a silk cloth covering a glass case that served as a table on which he and the customer leaned.First he pointed to a stick with a top shaped like fairy
boat and said with graceful importance,"Your writing will flow as smoothly as a keel cutting through a glassy lake."He picked up a bird shape:"your mind will soar into the clouds of higher thought."
He waved towards a row of ink cakes embellished with designs of peonies and bamboo: " Your ledgers will blossom into abundance while bamboo surrounds your quiet mind."
As he said this Precious Auntie came back into my mind. I was remembering how she taught me that everything,even ink had a purpose and a meaning:Good ink cannot be the quick kind,ready to pour out of a bottle. You can never be an artist if your work comes without effort.That is the problem from modern ink from a bottle. You do not have to think.You simply write what is swimming on the top of your brain. And the top is nothing but pond scum,dead leaves,and mosquito spawn. But when you push an inkstick along an inkstone, you take the first step to cleansing your mind and your heart.You push and you ask yourself,What are my intentions? What is in my heart that matches my mind?
I remember this, and yet that day in the ink shop, I listened to what Father was saying,and his words became far more important than anything Precious Auntie had thought."Look here," Father said to his customer ,and I looked.he held up and inkstick and rotated in the light,"See ? It is the right hue,purple-black,not brown or gray like the cheap brands you might find down the street.And listen to this."And I heard the sound as clean and pure as a small silver bell." The high pitched tone tells you that the soot is very fine,and smooth as the sliding banks of old rivers.
And the scent- can you smell the balance of strength and delicacy,the musical notes of the ink's perfume? Expensive,and everyone who sees you using it will know that it was well worth the high price."
I was very proud to hear Father speak of our family's ink this way. I sniffed the hot air.The smell of spices and camphor was very strong.
! This soot",Father continued "is far better than Anhui pine.
We make it from a kind of tree so rare that it's now forbidden to chop it down.
Luckily we have a supply felled by lightening ,blessed by the gods."Father asked the customer if he had heard about the ancient human skullcap recently unearthed from the quarry at Dragon Bone Hill.The old scholar nodded."Well we are from the village one hill over," Father explained "and the trees in our village are said to be more than a million years old!How do we know? think about it.When those million-year-old folks roamed the earth around Dragon Bone Hill,didn't they need trees to sit under,Trees for shade, Trees to make fires? Trees to build stools and tables and beds?Aha,am i right?Well then,,we,the people from the village next to Dragon Bone Hill,supplied the need."And now we are the ones who own the remains of those ancestral trees. We call them Immortal heart wood."
Father motioned to the shelves. "Now, look here,on this shelf there's only a pinch per stick,so the cost is less.In this row,two pinches.And in this case,it is almost entirely the soot of Immortal Tree wood. The ink draws easily into the brush,like nectar into a butterfly's nostril."
In the end,the customer bought several of the most expensive sticks and left the shop. I wanted to clap,as if I had just seen a play for the gods.
Amy Tan takes me into the world of 1930's rural china and the fascinating art of making ink.
After a long trip from the country Luling visits her father's shop to see where the ink is sold.
Then Little Uncle brought us hot tea and sweet oranges,as well as bamboo latticework fans with which to cool ourselves.
I tried to notice everything so I could later tell GaoLing what I had seen,nd tease out her envy.The floors of the shop were of dark wood,polished and clean,no dirty footprints,even though this was during the dustiest pert of the summer.
And along the walls were display cases made of wood and glass.The glass was very shiny and not one pane was broken.Within those glass cases were our silk-wrapped boxes,all our hard work.They looked so much nicer that they had in the ink-making studio at Immortal Heart village.
I saw that Father had opened several of the boxes.He set sticks and cakes and other shapes on a silk cloth covering a glass case that served as a table on which he and the customer leaned.First he pointed to a stick with a top shaped like fairy
boat and said with graceful importance,"Your writing will flow as smoothly as a keel cutting through a glassy lake."He picked up a bird shape:"your mind will soar into the clouds of higher thought."
He waved towards a row of ink cakes embellished with designs of peonies and bamboo: " Your ledgers will blossom into abundance while bamboo surrounds your quiet mind."
As he said this Precious Auntie came back into my mind. I was remembering how she taught me that everything,even ink had a purpose and a meaning:Good ink cannot be the quick kind,ready to pour out of a bottle. You can never be an artist if your work comes without effort.That is the problem from modern ink from a bottle. You do not have to think.You simply write what is swimming on the top of your brain. And the top is nothing but pond scum,dead leaves,and mosquito spawn. But when you push an inkstick along an inkstone, you take the first step to cleansing your mind and your heart.You push and you ask yourself,What are my intentions? What is in my heart that matches my mind?
I remember this, and yet that day in the ink shop, I listened to what Father was saying,and his words became far more important than anything Precious Auntie had thought."Look here," Father said to his customer ,and I looked.he held up and inkstick and rotated in the light,"See ? It is the right hue,purple-black,not brown or gray like the cheap brands you might find down the street.And listen to this."And I heard the sound as clean and pure as a small silver bell." The high pitched tone tells you that the soot is very fine,and smooth as the sliding banks of old rivers.
And the scent- can you smell the balance of strength and delicacy,the musical notes of the ink's perfume? Expensive,and everyone who sees you using it will know that it was well worth the high price."
I was very proud to hear Father speak of our family's ink this way. I sniffed the hot air.The smell of spices and camphor was very strong.
! This soot",Father continued "is far better than Anhui pine.
We make it from a kind of tree so rare that it's now forbidden to chop it down.
Luckily we have a supply felled by lightening ,blessed by the gods."Father asked the customer if he had heard about the ancient human skullcap recently unearthed from the quarry at Dragon Bone Hill.The old scholar nodded."Well we are from the village one hill over," Father explained "and the trees in our village are said to be more than a million years old!How do we know? think about it.When those million-year-old folks roamed the earth around Dragon Bone Hill,didn't they need trees to sit under,Trees for shade, Trees to make fires? Trees to build stools and tables and beds?Aha,am i right?Well then,,we,the people from the village next to Dragon Bone Hill,supplied the need."And now we are the ones who own the remains of those ancestral trees. We call them Immortal heart wood."
Father motioned to the shelves. "Now, look here,on this shelf there's only a pinch per stick,so the cost is less.In this row,two pinches.And in this case,it is almost entirely the soot of Immortal Tree wood. The ink draws easily into the brush,like nectar into a butterfly's nostril."
In the end,the customer bought several of the most expensive sticks and left the shop. I wanted to clap,as if I had just seen a play for the gods.
Day 3 May 22nd Club Castlenel Castalla
Los Angeles 7.00 PM
John found our Golden Treasury of Verse today, and was thrilled to find the W B Yeats poem The Wild Swans of Coole.
We visited Coole Park scores of times when we lived in County Clare, apart for looking for the wild swans ( we only ever saw a pair) we loved the boxed hedge garden ,the amazing lime green butterflies that always seemed to fly in pairs,and of course the great tea room.
John found our Golden Treasury of Verse today, and was thrilled to find the W B Yeats poem The Wild Swans of Coole.
We visited Coole Park scores of times when we lived in County Clare, apart for looking for the wild swans ( we only ever saw a pair) we loved the boxed hedge garden ,the amazing lime green butterflies that always seemed to fly in pairs,and of course the great tea room.
| THE TREES are in their autumn beauty, | |
| The woodland paths are dry, | |
| Under the October twilight the water | |
| Mirrors a still sky; | |
| Upon the brimming water among the stones | 5 |
| Are nine and fifty swans. | |
| The nineteenth Autumn has come upon me | |
| Since I first made my count; | |
| I saw, before I had well finished, | |
| All suddenly mount | 10 |
| And scatter wheeling in great broken rings | |
| Upon their clamorous wings. | |
| I have looked upon those brilliant creatures, | |
| And now my heart is sore. | |
| All’s changed since I, hearing at twilight, | 15 |
| The first time on this shore, | |
| The bell-beat of their wings above my head, | |
| Trod with a lighter tread. | |
| Unwearied still, lover by lover, | |
| They paddle in the cold, | 20 |
| Companionable streams or climb the air; | |
| Their hearts have not grown old; | |
| Passion or conquest, wander where they will, | |
| Attend upon them still. | |
| But now they drift on the still water | 25 |
| Mysterious, beautiful; | |
| Among what rushes will they build, | |
| By what lake’s edge or pool | |
| Delight men’s eyes, when I awake some day | |
| To find they have flown away? | 30 |
Monday, 24 May 2010
Second meeting 22nd May club
Los Angeles
Castlenel.
Los Angeles is the name we give to our lounge,which is on the second floor of Castlenel. I is calles Los Angeles because I was given a lot of angels as gifts when we left Ireland, and this is where the angels live.
John's had first choice this evening as we sat by the balcony , over looking .Carrer Mig.
Chosen because this passage resonates with both of us, it reminds us of the changes during summer days here in Castalla
From Tales of
THE ALHAMBRA. W Irving.
I occasionally amuse myself with noting from this balcony the gradual changes that came over the scenes below according to the different stages of the day.
Scarce has the grey dawn streaked the sky and the earliest cock crowed from the cottages of the hill-side,when the suburbs gives signs of reviving animation,for the fresh hours are precious in the summer season in a sultry climate.
All are anxious to get the start of the sun in the business of the day. The muleteer drives forth his loaded train for the journey,the traveller slings his carbine behind his saddle and mounts his steed at the gate of the hostel,the brown peasant urges his loitering beasts,laden with panniers of sunny fruit and fresh dewy vegetables,for already the thrifty housewives are hastening to the market.
The sun is up and sparkles along the valley,tipping the transparent foliage of the groves. The matin bells resound melodiously through the pure bright air,announcing the hour of devotion. The muleteer halts his burthened animals before the chapel,thrusts his staff through his belt behind and enters with hat in hand,smoothing his coal-black hair,to hear a mass and put up a prayer for a prosperous
wayfaring across the Sierra.And now steps forth on fairy foot the gentle senora in trim basquina, with restless fan in hand and dark eye flashing from beneath the gracefully folded mantilla; she seeks some well - frequented church to offer up her mornings orisons,but the nicely adjusted dress,the dainty show and cobweb stocking the raven tresses,exquisitely braided,the fresh plucked rose that gleams among them like a gem show that earth divides with Heaven the empire of her thoughts.Keep and eye upon her,careful mother,or virgin aunt or vigilant duena whichever you be,that walk behind.
As the morning advances, the din and beast of burden of labour augments on every side;the streets are thronged with man and steed and of beast of burden,and there us a hum and murmur,like the surges of the ocean.As the sun ascends to his meridian,the hum and bustle gradually decline;at the height of noon there is a pause. The panting city sinks into lassitude and for several hours there is a general repose.The windows are closed,the curtains drawn,the inhabitants retire into the coolest recesses of their mansions,the full fed monk snores in his dormitory, the brawny porter lies stretched on the pavement beside his burden,the peasant and the labourer sleep beneath the trees of the Alameda,lulled by the sultry chirping of the locust,The streets are deserted except by the water-carrier who refreshes the ear by proclaiming the merits of his sparkling beverage^^colder than the mountain snow^^
As the sun declines,there is again a gradual reviving ,and when the vesper bell rings out his stinking knell,all nature seems to rejoice that the tyrant of the day has fallen.Now begins the bustle of enjoyment,when the citizens pour forth to breathe the evening air and revel away the brief twilight in the walks and gardens of the Darro and the Xenil.
As night closes,the capricious scene assumes new features.
Light after light gradually twinkles forth,here a taper from a balconied window, there a votive lamp before the image of a saint. Thus by degrees the city emerges from the prevailing gloom,and sparkles with scattered lights,like the starry firmament. Now break forth from court and garden and street and lane the tinkling of innumerable guitars and the clinking of castanets;blending,at this lofty height in a faint but general concert ^^ Enjoy the moment^^, is the creed of the gay and amorous Andalusian, and at no time does he practice it more zealously than in the balmy night of summer,wooing his mistress with the dance,the love ditty and the passionate serenade.
I was one evening seated on the balcony ,enjoying the light breeze that came rustling along the side of the hill among the tree-tops, when my humble historiographer Mateo who was at my elbow pointed out a spacious house in an obscure street of the Albaicin,about which he related,as nearly as I can recollect, the following anecdote.
Washington Irving.
I chose a this passage from my favourite book Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.
This is the moment Pip leaves Joe and his old life behind ,to travel to London to his Great Expectations.
I could not be part of the May 22nd club and not have something from Great Expectations. I expect I will choose more passages in the future..
Maybe because I am living with the prospect of loss at this time, this passage resonated with me this evening.
It was a hurried breakfast with no taste in it. I got up from the meal,saying with a sort of briskness,as if it had only just occurred to me,"Well I suppose I must be off!" and then i kissed my sister who was laughing and nodding and shaking in her usual chair,and kissed Biddy,and threw my arms around Joe's neck. Then I took up my little portmanteau and walked out. The last I saw of them ,was when I presently heard a scuffle behind me, and looking back,saw Joe throwing an old show after me and Biddy throwing another old shoe. I stopped than,to wave my hat,and dear old Joe waved his srtong right arm above his head,crying huskily "Hooroar!" and Biddy put her apron to her face.
I walked away at a good pace ,thinking it was easier to go than I had supposed it would be,and reflecting that it would never have done to have had an old show thrown after the coach,in sight of all the High -street.I whistled and made nothing of going.But the village was very peaceful and quite,and the light mists were solemnly rising,as if to show me the world,and I had been so innocent and little there,and all beyond was so unknown and great,that in a moment with a strong heave and a sob I broke into tears.It was at the finger-post at the end of the village,and I laid my hand upon it,and said"Good-by O my dear,dear friend!"
Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears,for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth,overlaying our hard hearts.
I was better after I had cried,than before- more sorry,more aware of my own ingratitude ,more gentle.If I had cried before,I should have had Joe with me then.
So subdued was I by those tears,and by their breaking out again in the course by the quiet walk,that when I was on the coach,and it was clear of the town,I deliberated with an aching heart whether I would not get down when we changed horses,and walk back,and have another evening at home,and a better parting.We changed,and I had not made up my mind,and still reflected for my comfort that it would be quite practicable to get down and walk back,when we changed again.And while I was occupied with these deliberations,I would fancy an exact resemblance to Joe in some man coming along the road towards us,and my heart would beat high,-As if he could possibly be there!
We changed again ,and yet again,and it was now too late and too far to go back,and I went on.
And the mists had all solemnly risen now,and the world lay spread before me.
This is the end of the first stage of Pip's expectations
Castlenel.
Los Angeles is the name we give to our lounge,which is on the second floor of Castlenel. I is calles Los Angeles because I was given a lot of angels as gifts when we left Ireland, and this is where the angels live.
John's had first choice this evening as we sat by the balcony , over looking .Carrer Mig.
Chosen because this passage resonates with both of us, it reminds us of the changes during summer days here in Castalla
From Tales of
THE ALHAMBRA. W Irving.
I occasionally amuse myself with noting from this balcony the gradual changes that came over the scenes below according to the different stages of the day.
Scarce has the grey dawn streaked the sky and the earliest cock crowed from the cottages of the hill-side,when the suburbs gives signs of reviving animation,for the fresh hours are precious in the summer season in a sultry climate.
All are anxious to get the start of the sun in the business of the day. The muleteer drives forth his loaded train for the journey,the traveller slings his carbine behind his saddle and mounts his steed at the gate of the hostel,the brown peasant urges his loitering beasts,laden with panniers of sunny fruit and fresh dewy vegetables,for already the thrifty housewives are hastening to the market.
The sun is up and sparkles along the valley,tipping the transparent foliage of the groves. The matin bells resound melodiously through the pure bright air,announcing the hour of devotion. The muleteer halts his burthened animals before the chapel,thrusts his staff through his belt behind and enters with hat in hand,smoothing his coal-black hair,to hear a mass and put up a prayer for a prosperous
wayfaring across the Sierra.And now steps forth on fairy foot the gentle senora in trim basquina, with restless fan in hand and dark eye flashing from beneath the gracefully folded mantilla; she seeks some well - frequented church to offer up her mornings orisons,but the nicely adjusted dress,the dainty show and cobweb stocking the raven tresses,exquisitely braided,the fresh plucked rose that gleams among them like a gem show that earth divides with Heaven the empire of her thoughts.Keep and eye upon her,careful mother,or virgin aunt or vigilant duena whichever you be,that walk behind.
As the morning advances, the din and beast of burden of labour augments on every side;the streets are thronged with man and steed and of beast of burden,and there us a hum and murmur,like the surges of the ocean.As the sun ascends to his meridian,the hum and bustle gradually decline;at the height of noon there is a pause. The panting city sinks into lassitude and for several hours there is a general repose.The windows are closed,the curtains drawn,the inhabitants retire into the coolest recesses of their mansions,the full fed monk snores in his dormitory, the brawny porter lies stretched on the pavement beside his burden,the peasant and the labourer sleep beneath the trees of the Alameda,lulled by the sultry chirping of the locust,The streets are deserted except by the water-carrier who refreshes the ear by proclaiming the merits of his sparkling beverage^^colder than the mountain snow^^
As the sun declines,there is again a gradual reviving ,and when the vesper bell rings out his stinking knell,all nature seems to rejoice that the tyrant of the day has fallen.Now begins the bustle of enjoyment,when the citizens pour forth to breathe the evening air and revel away the brief twilight in the walks and gardens of the Darro and the Xenil.
As night closes,the capricious scene assumes new features.
Light after light gradually twinkles forth,here a taper from a balconied window, there a votive lamp before the image of a saint. Thus by degrees the city emerges from the prevailing gloom,and sparkles with scattered lights,like the starry firmament. Now break forth from court and garden and street and lane the tinkling of innumerable guitars and the clinking of castanets;blending,at this lofty height in a faint but general concert ^^ Enjoy the moment^^, is the creed of the gay and amorous Andalusian, and at no time does he practice it more zealously than in the balmy night of summer,wooing his mistress with the dance,the love ditty and the passionate serenade.
I was one evening seated on the balcony ,enjoying the light breeze that came rustling along the side of the hill among the tree-tops, when my humble historiographer Mateo who was at my elbow pointed out a spacious house in an obscure street of the Albaicin,about which he related,as nearly as I can recollect, the following anecdote.
Washington Irving.
I chose a this passage from my favourite book Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.
This is the moment Pip leaves Joe and his old life behind ,to travel to London to his Great Expectations.
I could not be part of the May 22nd club and not have something from Great Expectations. I expect I will choose more passages in the future..
Maybe because I am living with the prospect of loss at this time, this passage resonated with me this evening.
It was a hurried breakfast with no taste in it. I got up from the meal,saying with a sort of briskness,as if it had only just occurred to me,"Well I suppose I must be off!" and then i kissed my sister who was laughing and nodding and shaking in her usual chair,and kissed Biddy,and threw my arms around Joe's neck. Then I took up my little portmanteau and walked out. The last I saw of them ,was when I presently heard a scuffle behind me, and looking back,saw Joe throwing an old show after me and Biddy throwing another old shoe. I stopped than,to wave my hat,and dear old Joe waved his srtong right arm above his head,crying huskily "Hooroar!" and Biddy put her apron to her face.
I walked away at a good pace ,thinking it was easier to go than I had supposed it would be,and reflecting that it would never have done to have had an old show thrown after the coach,in sight of all the High -street.I whistled and made nothing of going.But the village was very peaceful and quite,and the light mists were solemnly rising,as if to show me the world,and I had been so innocent and little there,and all beyond was so unknown and great,that in a moment with a strong heave and a sob I broke into tears.It was at the finger-post at the end of the village,and I laid my hand upon it,and said"Good-by O my dear,dear friend!"
Heaven knows we need never be ashamed of our tears,for they are rain upon the blinding dust of earth,overlaying our hard hearts.
I was better after I had cried,than before- more sorry,more aware of my own ingratitude ,more gentle.If I had cried before,I should have had Joe with me then.
So subdued was I by those tears,and by their breaking out again in the course by the quiet walk,that when I was on the coach,and it was clear of the town,I deliberated with an aching heart whether I would not get down when we changed horses,and walk back,and have another evening at home,and a better parting.We changed,and I had not made up my mind,and still reflected for my comfort that it would be quite practicable to get down and walk back,when we changed again.And while I was occupied with these deliberations,I would fancy an exact resemblance to Joe in some man coming along the road towards us,and my heart would beat high,-As if he could possibly be there!
We changed again ,and yet again,and it was now too late and too far to go back,and I went on.
And the mists had all solemnly risen now,and the world lay spread before me.
This is the end of the first stage of Pip's expectations
1st evening of the club
On May 22nd 2010 ,my youngest son's 35th birthday.
John and I decided to share a poem,a book review or anything else we were inspired by,with each other at 7.00 pm on the balcony at Castlenel.
When we are in Castlenel Castalla Spain, we usually meet on the balcony or in Los Angeles for a glass of wine.
We said we would choose something to read or talk about,and we would say why we chose this before we took our turn.
We think we will do this as much as possible while we are here in Castlenel, and we will do it as much as we can once we are back in the real world.
We are planning on expanding the May 22nd club to include friends and family, and have a meeting once a month on the 22nd where ever we are.
I was first to choose my reading on the balcony that first night. I chose to read this piece from Thomasina by Paul Gallico we are going through a difficult time and I always read Thomasina when things are difficult.
This book is set in Argyll in Scotland and told by Thomasina the much love cat of Mary Ruadh .
First reading
"But there was something else pleasant about Mary Ruadh;
she smelled good,Mrs Mckenzie kept her washed and ironed when she was at home and she always smelled of lavender, for Mrs McKenzie kept lavender bags in with her clothes and underthings.
It seemed as if Mrs Mckenzie was forever washing and ironing and starching and scenting her clothes,because it was the only way she was allowed to show how much she cared for Mary Ruadh.
Mrs Mckenzie was a thin woman who talked and sang through her nose. She would have mothered Mary Ruadh the way we will frequently look after someone's kitten as though it were our own,but Mr Mac Dhui ws jealous and feared that Mary Ruadh would come to love her too much if she were allowed to cuddle her. Oh,Mr Bristle-and - Smelly was allowed to cuddle her all he wished,but nobody else.
I loved the odour of lavender.Smells almost more than noises,seem to bring on the happiness or unhappiness memories.
You might not remember what it was about a smell had made you angry at the time,or afraid, but as soon as you come across it again you are angry or fearful.Like the medicine smell of Mr MacDhui.
But lavender was the happiness smell.It made my claws move in and out and brought the contentment purr to my throat.
Sometimes after putting Mary Ruadh's things away after ironing them,Mrs Mc Kenzie would forget to close all the chest of drawers,and leave one open.Then I would quickly nip indide and lie there full length with my nose up against a lavender bag,smelling smelling,smelling.That was bliss.
That was when I was contented and at peace with the world.
John's first choice on our May 22nd club meeting was this.
He said he was so pleased to be back in Castlenel surrounded by familiar books and this book, The Sea of Faith by Don Cupitt jumped out at him.John thinks this is because things are difficult for us right now.
Second reading
Dover Beach
John and I decided to share a poem,a book review or anything else we were inspired by,with each other at 7.00 pm on the balcony at Castlenel.
When we are in Castlenel Castalla Spain, we usually meet on the balcony or in Los Angeles for a glass of wine.
We said we would choose something to read or talk about,and we would say why we chose this before we took our turn.
We think we will do this as much as possible while we are here in Castlenel, and we will do it as much as we can once we are back in the real world.
We are planning on expanding the May 22nd club to include friends and family, and have a meeting once a month on the 22nd where ever we are.
I was first to choose my reading on the balcony that first night. I chose to read this piece from Thomasina by Paul Gallico we are going through a difficult time and I always read Thomasina when things are difficult.
This book is set in Argyll in Scotland and told by Thomasina the much love cat of Mary Ruadh .
First reading
"But there was something else pleasant about Mary Ruadh;
she smelled good,Mrs Mckenzie kept her washed and ironed when she was at home and she always smelled of lavender, for Mrs McKenzie kept lavender bags in with her clothes and underthings.
It seemed as if Mrs Mckenzie was forever washing and ironing and starching and scenting her clothes,because it was the only way she was allowed to show how much she cared for Mary Ruadh.
Mrs Mckenzie was a thin woman who talked and sang through her nose. She would have mothered Mary Ruadh the way we will frequently look after someone's kitten as though it were our own,but Mr Mac Dhui ws jealous and feared that Mary Ruadh would come to love her too much if she were allowed to cuddle her. Oh,Mr Bristle-and - Smelly was allowed to cuddle her all he wished,but nobody else.
I loved the odour of lavender.Smells almost more than noises,seem to bring on the happiness or unhappiness memories.
You might not remember what it was about a smell had made you angry at the time,or afraid, but as soon as you come across it again you are angry or fearful.Like the medicine smell of Mr MacDhui.
But lavender was the happiness smell.It made my claws move in and out and brought the contentment purr to my throat.
Sometimes after putting Mary Ruadh's things away after ironing them,Mrs Mc Kenzie would forget to close all the chest of drawers,and leave one open.Then I would quickly nip indide and lie there full length with my nose up against a lavender bag,smelling smelling,smelling.That was bliss.
That was when I was contented and at peace with the world.
John's first choice on our May 22nd club meeting was this.
He said he was so pleased to be back in Castlenel surrounded by familiar books and this book, The Sea of Faith by Don Cupitt jumped out at him.John thinks this is because things are difficult for us right now.
Second reading
Dover Beach
The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits; on the French coast the light
Gleams and is gone; the cliffs of England stand;
Glimmering and vast, out in the tranquil bay.
Come to the window, sweet is the night-air!
Only, from the long line of spray
Where the sea meets the moon-blanched land,
Listen! you hear the grating roar
Of pebbles which the waves draw back, and fling,
At their return, up the high strand,
Begin, and cease, and then again begin,
With tremulous cadence slow, and bring
The eternal note of sadness in.
Sophocles long ago
Heard it on the A gaean, and it brought
Into his mind the turbid ebb and flow
Of human misery; we
Find also in the sound a thought,
Hearing it by this distant northern sea.
The Sea of Faith
Was once, too, at the full, and round earth's shore
Lay like the folds of a bright girdle furled.
But now I only hear
Its melancholy, long, withdrawing roar,
Retreating, to the breath
Of the night-wind, down the vast edges drear
And naked shingles of the world.
Ah, love, let us be true
To one another! for the world, which seems
To lie before us like a land of dreams,
So various, so beautiful, so new,
Hath really neither joy, nor love, nor light,
Nor certitude, nor peace, nor help for pain;
And we are here as on a darkling plain
Swept with confused alarms of struggle and flight,
Where ignorant armies clash by night.
Poem by Matthew Arnold
We talked a bit about our choices, and we think that we both chose pieces that are essentially about "LOVE" and we came to the conclusion that at the end of the day when life is really tough Love is really all we have and what helps.
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