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.
Monday, 31 May 2010
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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