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Fields, Motels, and Gideon’s Bibles

Join me again tonight for the second part of a little series I’m developing. I’ll attempt to start each one with a little intro, a little refresher of the previous tale, and at the same time, develop this in such a way that each step stands on its own. Tonight’s entry is a revisit and modest revision of this previous posting…Fields, Motels, Gideon’s Bible, Marines.

There once was a girl who grew up in a really small town, really far away from much of anything. As you might assume, that girl was me. I started this little humble series with the intent to see what would happen when I walked back down the streets of my childhood – would I see how things had changed or, in reflection, how much my own perception has changed; have I taken note of what has been lost to progress and the decay of youth; who were the people and places I’ve left behind and if I remember them, does the telling shed light on who I am today. Consider, if you will, that this is an evening constitutional in the cool night air that circulates in the back of my mind.

The neverending story: there once was a girl.

There once was a girl who grew up in a really small town, really far away from much of anything. Of course, the word “girl” doesn’t define her, didn’t then, doesn’t now, but definitions in those days were unimaginative and lame, and besides, all she knew at the time was that she was a girl, much as that meant anything to her or to anyone and after all, it implied someone of a specific age or gender, doesn’t it, and even then, she had no idea there was anything at all beyond being a girl, unless that led always to being a woman, which is what she imagined her mother was.

The girl’s imagination stretched just a bit oddly farther than other people’s imaginations, and their definitions, but alas, that would amble along later.

How to live with bitches

I hesitate writing this, because of the judgments passed on those who have too much, who need too much, who are not careful enough. But sometimes you just have to wallow in what you have and forget about the things you’re missing. Right now, I’m living the life of an animal maniac, in a household of five female dogs and two male dogs. I have three daughters living at home at this moment, too.

You think you can imagine chaos? I can describe it in granular detail more finely drawn than that pixelated image of God on your screensaver.

Why reclining, interrogating? Why myself and all drowsing? 
What deepening twilight! scum floating atop of the waters! 
Who are they, as bats and night-dogs, askant in the Capitol? 
What a filthy Presidentiad!

Walt Whitman, Leaves of Grass

Anywhere in the universe, except the Andromeda galaxy.

This wrinkle in time, I cant give it no credit
I thought about my space and I really got me down
(got me down)

(excerpted lyrics from Headache – Frank Black)

Madeleine L’Engle would have loved the fact that she died at 88, I think. 88 is an abundant number, and the prime factors are 2x2x2x11.

L’Engle’s Newberry Award-winning A Wrinkle in Time was published in 1962, and this is the 44th year anniversary of her most acclaimed book. 44 is an octahedral number, the factors of which are 2x2x11.

Afternoon thread: Even you, oh Prince

(I’m posting this as a thread, as I will be in and out, today only).
Luciano, Buona Notte.

Nessun dorma, nessun dorma …
Tu pure, o Principessa,
Nella tua fredda stanza,
Guardi le stelle
Che tremano d’amore
  E di speranza.
No one sleeps, no one sleeps…
Even you, o Princess,
In your cold room,
Watch the stars,
That tremble with love
  And with hope.

What falls away is always

I never mentioned to him, during those four years that we knew each other, that I was familiar with Theodore Roethke. I never recall Murray saying a word about Roethke to me. It is the greatest irony to me; a small thing to you, of course. But when you meet someone, and see them many, many times over the course of four years, and your lives cross paths in both big and minuscule ways, you’d think that “knowing” Roethke would have been a topic that might have been shared.

Theodore Roethke Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

My friend from Santa Rosalia, Baja

This is a slightly edited version of a story I did last year in July about a friend of mine. Juan didn’t go back to Baja after all past Christmas. He told me it would be too difficult to return here and he has few people left in Santa Rosalia now. He’d like to go back before he dies, though. That’s what he told me.

I haven’t seen Juan for almost four months – the longest it’s been since I met him years ago. When the weather gets cold here in Seattle, perhaps he will knock on my door.

Juan, I have more work for you, and a pot of coffee to brew.

There is a town by the name of Santa Rosalia on the Sea of Cortez, in Baja California.  When you hear a Santa Rosalia native say the name, the word “Rosalia” has the most lyrical and lovely sound, and you imagine the town as a woman, dark hair captured at the nape of a long and elegant neck, red rose behind the ear, smoky eyes. A sultry rolling “R”, a slightly flat “O”, and softer “S” – “Rosalia”.

Sunset at Santa Rosalia A story below the fold…

“I mean, she’s a woman. Why would I not vote for a woman?”

“Well, I hope you’d vote for the best candidate, regardless of gender or race.”

“She is the best candidate. She’s smart, she knows how to play the game, she has visibility, she’s been through shit and survived, she’s someone who would have made it on her own, without her connection to her husband. I really believe that – she’s made me believe that.”

“What do you think about what many liberals are saying, the ones who write on the blogs I frequent? That she’s a corporatist, that she takes lobbyist money, that she’s beholden to big money?”

The Perseids: As though to breathe were life (a revisiting)

(This is a revisit to a diary I wrote last year. We’ve passed the peak of the Perseids for this year, but if you have a clear night, you will see random meteor showers. If you are patient. I watched at least three fall by tonight, between the clouds, as they chased the dark aside. Make a wish now.)

Perseids - August 2004 From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things

Unchained stars, released from the bonds of eternity, flailing and burning their way through the universe, past our eyes, but visible if we but keep eyes wide open, staring outward, staring upward. Sometimes staring slightly off-center of what we want to see.  Looking at stars is like that – sometimes you cannot look directly at a star to really see it. 

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