Still Clinging

SONG OF FALLING LEAVES

The rustling of the silk is discontinued,
Dust drifts over the courtyard,
There is no sound of footfall, and the leaves
Scurry into heaps and lie still,
And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them:

A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.

Ezra Pound (1885 - 1972)
Adapted from Liu Ch'e (156 - 87 BC)

Thanks to poet and editor Lee Perron
for observing traditional Memorial Day* with this poem,
as a "Memorial for the Dear Ones We Have Lost"

When Lee's poem for the day appeared in my mailbox,
I had to share with him the above photo
that I had taken only hours earlier.

His response:
"A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.
Two of them in your life on the same day.
Thank you much for sending."

*P.S.
Re: Memorial Day Weekend

Nowadays it can have all kinds of militaristic political correctness attached to it for some -- and for others a timely occasion for a BBQ -- but I remember it as a day to visit the cemetery with my grandparents and decorate all the family graves.

In fact, we didn’t even call it “Memorial Day” when I was little. We called it "Decoration Day.” Some say this is a North / South distinction; but, no, we were Yankees, and we still said "Decoration Day." Sure, the Veterans’ graves got flags and there was a ceremony, but ALL the graves got flowers, or plantings to last the summer -- more like Mexican Day of the Dead

Jewel Tones

The Letter (1896) ~ Władysław Czachórski

For more art work by
Władysław Czachórski,
Corita Kent & Leonardo Da Vinci

and poetry by
Emily Dickinson, Joan Baez,
Sasha Moorsom & Lotte Kramer

see my recent posts

For May 28
Heirloom Jewelry

For May 14
Re: Jewel, Rainbow, Splendor

For April 28
Time Does Not Assuage

For April 14 / 15
Everything Connects

@The Fortnightly Kitti Carriker
A literary blog of connection & coincidence;
custom & ceremony

Mushrooms: Friend or Foe?

Growing on our hillside a couple years ago;
edible, I think, but we didn't harvest them.

I never knew that poisoning people intentionally
with mushrooms was such a thing,
until I happened to watch these four movies
in the space of a couple of months:

The Beguiled 1971

The Beguiled 2017

Phantom Thread 2017

Shadow of a Doubt 1943

If you love mushrooms (but not as a weapon!)
you might enjoy this crazy mystical mushroom video

~ courtesy of Sir Igor ~

who also sent this vintage cartoon of
frogs wearing poisonous mushroom hats
while dancing under a kind of creepy summer moon.

Why is that fairytales always choose to feature
this poisonous (though not deadly) mushroom?
I guess it's because of the irresistibly cute color scheme:
red with white - polka dots!
Just be sure to tell the kids: DO NOT EVER EAT!

Fly Agaric (Amanita Muscaria)

Happy Birthday to Me!

A Modest Birthday Wish! Right?

Facebook Post

Hearkening back, age 14 includes my good friend Joni and all the things we had in common -- poetry (e. e. cummings), music (Cat Stevens), hanging around Joni's house and being a little bit spoiled by her sweet mom, making spaghetti and Lipton Onion Soup, walks and bike rides, exchanging personalized presents, searching our hearts on a daily basis, just being girls together -- even our twin-ness (we each have a twin brother)! Joni had several additional brothers but no sisters, so I was honored to receive the title of ""sister at large" from her older brother Jim, whose funny greeting captures the spirit of the time:

"Hi Kitti, right now my darned old cat is attacking me, he is so possesive. I must let you know that for as long as you have known of my mom, you have captured that rare recognition of being a sister at large. Do you remember when I attempted to trade you in for Joan? The deal went sour when Joany reneged because she couldn't refrain from trying to tell me off. Pammy . . . Chrissy . . . all of them were like real sisters, but you will always stand out as being the nice one. Take care, and have a wonderful Sunday. jm"

Thanks Jimmy!

StoryPeople

The Moorish Chief & Fatidica

Our old favorite at the Philadelphia Museum of Art:
The Moorish Chief (1878)
by Eduard Charlemont (1848 – 1906)

Can you guess the best-selling item in the Art Museum Store? We bought a framed copy of The Moorish Chief when we first moved to Philadelphia in 1993. For nearly 30 years, in three different houses (West Philly, Society Hill; and West Lafayette, Indiana) it hung in the dining room!

It is now above our living room fireplace here in Virginia, along with . . .

Fatidica [see more]

I like the matching aspect of their draped white outfits,
and their similar expressions of authority and gravity.
They might each be casting judgment, but they are
entitled to do so, by virtue of their wisdom.

Our new favorite at the Lady Lever Gallery:
Fatidica (1893 - 94)
by Frederick Leighton (1830 - 1896)

Hope Like a Bad Check

Available at Amazon & Target

A poem for graduation time . . .

Hope; An Owner's Manual

Look, you might as well know, this thing
is going to take endless repair: rubber bands,
crazy glue, tapioca, the square of the hypotenuse.
Nineteenth century novels. Heartstrings, sunrise:
all of these are useful. Also, feathers. [emphasis added]

To keep it humming, sometimes you have to stand
on an incline, where everything looks possible;
on the line you drew yourself. Or in
the grocery line, making faces at a toddler
secretly, over his mother's shoulder.

You might have to pop the clutch and run
past all the evidence. Past everyone who is
laughing or praying for you. Definitely you don't
want to go directly to jail, but still, here you go,
passing time, passing strange. Don't pass this up.

In the worst of times, you will have to pass it off.
Park it and fly by the seat of your pants. With nothing
in the bank, you'll still want to take the express.
Tiptoe past the dogs of the apocalypse that are sleeping
in the shade of your future. Pay at the window.
Pass your hope like a bad check.
You might still have just enough time. To make a deposit.

by Barbara Kingsolver
from "How to be Hopeful"
her commencement address at Duke University
Durham, North Carolina, May 11, 2008.
Published online by Duke Today

Also included in Kingsolver's poetry collection:
How to Fly (In Ten Thousand Easy Lessons)

And this one by Emily Dickinson goes along with it:

“Hope” is the thing with feathers
(poem #314)

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm-
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.

~Emily Dickinson

And for additional good luck:
"Feather Bag, Stick Bag"

In the Spirit of the Graduation Season!

Embracing Imperfection

This "Imperfection" ephemera scrapbook,
that I received as a present from my friend Steven,
is totally, entirely in a class by itself!
It is one of the most amazing handicraft - artifacts
that I have ever beheld!

It is full of quaint starter pages
which you can keep as designed or add to as you wish.

I embraced the reality of imperfection years ago

when my piano teacher wisely advised me:

1. You can’t promise to be perfect.

2. You always have the option of going a little slower.

I still recall these tips not only in music

but countless times throughout every day

— applicable in so many ways!

Many thanks to Leslie for the life advice!

P.S.
See previous posts:
Scales & Piano Lesson

Sei Shonagon ~ Hateful Things

Circling Crows

Many a time, a quote from Sei Shonagon's Pillow Book is just the thing!

When driving across the country

or wandering around Las Vegas

or reading My Year of Meats

or bemoaning the weather

or teaching "The List" as a literary construct.
One of my favorite sections:

Hateful Things

One is in a hurry to leave, but one’s visitor keeps chattering away. If it is someone of no importance, one can get rid of him by saying, “You must tell me all about it next time”; but, should it be the sort of visitor whose presence commands one’s best behaviour, the situation is hateful indeed.

One finds that a hair has got caught in the stone on which one is rubbing one’s inkstick, or again that gravel is lodged in the inkstick, making a nasty, grating sound. Someone has suddenly fallen ill and one summons the exorcist. Since he is not at home, one has to send messengers to look for him. After one has had a long, fretful wait, the exorcist finally arrives, and with a sigh of relief one asks him to start his incantations. But perhaps he has been exorcizing too many evil spirits lately, for hardly has he installed himself and begun praying when his voice becomes drowsy. Oh, how hateful!

A man who has nothing in particular to recommend him discusses all sorts of subjects at random as though he knew everything.

An elderly person warms the palms of his hands over a brazier and stretches out the wrinkles. No young man would dream of behaving in such a fashion; old people can really be quite shameless. I have seen some dreary old creatures actually resting their feet on the brazier and rubbing them against the edge while they speak. These are the kind of people who in visiting someone’s house first use their fans to wipe away the dust from the mat and, when they finally sit on it, cannot stay still but are forever spreading out the front of their hunting costume1 or even tucking it up under their knees. One might suppose that such behaviour was restricted to people of humble station, but I have observed it in quite well-bred people, including a Senior Secretary of the Fifth Rank in the Ministry of Ceremonial and a former Governor of Suruga.

I hate the sight of men in their cups who shout, poke their fingers in their mouths, stroke their beards, and pass on the wine to their neighbours with cries of “Have some more! Drink up!” They tremble, shake their heads, twist their faces, and gesticulate like children who are singing, “We’re off to see the governor!” I have seen really well-bred people behave like this and I find it most distasteful.

To envy others and complain about one’s own lot; to speak badly about people; to be inquisitive about the most trivial matters and to resent and abuse people for not telling one, or, if one does manage to worm out some facts, to inform everyone in the most detailed fashion as if one had known all from the beginning—oh, how hateful!

One is just about to be told some interesting piece of news when a baby starts crying.

A flight of crows circle over with loud caws.

An admirer has come on a clandestine visit, but a dog catches sight of him and starts barking. One feels like killing the beast.

One has been foolish enough to invite a man to spend the night in an unsuitable place—and then he starts snoring.

A gentleman has visited one secretly. Though he is wearing a tall, lacquered hat,2 he nevertheless wants no one to see him. He is so flurried, in fact, that on leaving he bangs into something with his hat. Most hateful! It is annoying too when he lifts up the Iyo blind3 that hangs at the entrance of the room, then lets it fall with a great rattle. If it is a head-blind, things are still worse, for being more solid it makes a terrible noise when it is dropped. There is no excuse for such carelessness. Even a head-blind does not make any noise if one lifts it up gently when entering and leaving the room; the same applies to sliding-doors. If one’s movements are rough, even a paper door will bend and resonate when opened; but, if one lifts the door a little when pushing it, there need be no sound.

One has gone to bed and is about to doze off when a mosquito appears, announcing himself in a reedy voice. One can actually feel the wind made by his wings, and, slight though it is, one finds it hateful in the extreme.

A carriage passes by with a nasty, creaking noise. Annoying to think that the passengers may not even be aware of this! If I am travelling in someone’s carriage and I hear it creaking, I dislike not only the noise but the owner of the carriage.

One is in the middle of a story when someone butts in and tries to show that he is the only clever person in the room. Such a person is hateful, and so, indeed, is anyone, child or adult, who tries to push himself forward.

One is telling a story about old times when someone breaks in with a little detail that he happens to know, implying that one’s own version is inaccurate — disgusting behaviour!

Very hateful is a mouse that scurries all over the place.

Some children have called at one’s house. One makes a great fuss of them and gives them toys to play with. The children become accustomed to this treatment and start to come regularly, forcing their way into one’s inner rooms and scattering one’s furnishings and possessions. Hateful!

A certain gentleman whom one does not wish to see visits one at home or in the Palace, and one pretends to be asleep. But a maid comes to tell one and shakes one awake, with a look on her face that says, “What a sleepyhead!” Very hateful.

A newcomer pushes ahead of the other members in a group; with a knowing look, this person starts laying down the law and forcing advice upon everyone—most hateful.

A man with whom one is having an affair keeps singing the praises of some woman he used to know. Even if it is a thing of the past, this can be very annoying. How much more so if he is still seeing the woman! (Yet sometimes I find it is not as unpleasant as all that.)

A person who recites a spell himself after sneezing.4 In fact I detest anyone who sneezes, except the master of the house.

Fleas too, are very hateful. When they dance about under someone’s clothes, they really seem to be lifting them up.

The sound of dogs when they bark for a long time in chorus is ominous and hateful.

I cannot stand people who leave without closing the panel behind them.

I hate people whose letters show that they lack respect for worldly civilities, whether by discourtesy in the phrasing or by extreme politeness to someone who does not deserve it. This sort of thing is, of course, most odious if the letter is for oneself, but it is bad enough even if it is addressed to someone else.

As a matter of fact, most people are too casual, not only in their letters but in their direct conversation. Sometimes I am quite disgusted at noting how little decorum people observe when talking to each other. It is particularly unpleasant to hear some foolish man or woman omit the proper marks of respect when addressing a person of quality; and, when servants fail to use honorific forms of speech in referring to their masters, it is very bad indeed. No less odious, however, are those masters who, in addressing their servants, use such phrases as ‘When you were good enough to do such-and-such’ or ‘As you so kindly remarked.’ No doubt there are some masters who, in describing their own actions to a servant, say, ‘I presumed to do so-and-so’!5

Sometimes a person who is utterly devoid of charm will try to create a good impression by using very elegant language; yet he succeeds only in being ridiculous. No doubt he believes this refined language to be just what the occasion demands, but, when it goes so far that everyone bursts out laughing, surely something must be wrong.

When speaking to young noblemen and courtiers of high rank, one should always (unless Their Majesties are present) refer to them by their official posts. Incidentally, I have been very shocked to hear important people use the word ‘I’ while conversing in Their Majesties’ presence.6 Such a breach of etiquette is really distressing, and I fail to see why people cannot avoid it.

A man who has nothing in particular to recommend him, but who speaks in an affected tone and poses as being elegant.

An inkstone with such a hard, smooth surface that the stick glides over it without leaving any deposit of ink.

Ladies-in-waiting who want to know everything that is going on.

Sometimes one greatly dislikes a person for no particular reason—and then that person goes and does something hateful.

A gentleman who travels alone in his carriage to see a procession or some other spectacle. What sort of man is he? Even though he may not be a person of the greatest quality, surely he should have taken along a few of the many young men who are anxious to see the sights. But no, there he sits by himself (one can see his silhouette through the blinds) with a proud look on his face, keeping all his impressions to himself.

A lover who is leaving at dawn announces that he has to find his fan and his paper.7 “I know I put them somewhere last night,” he says. Since it is pitch-dark, he gropes about the room, bumping into the furniture and muttering, “Strange! Where can they be?” Finally he discovers the objects. He thrusts the paper into the breast of his robe with a great rustling sound; then he snaps open his fan and busily fans away with it. Only now is he ready to take his leave. What charmless behaviour! “Hateful” is an understatement.

Equally disagreeable is the man who, when leaving in the middle of the night, takes care to fasten the cord of his headdress. This is quite unnecessary; he could perfectly well put it gently on his head without tying the cord. And why must he spend time adjusting his cloak or hunting costume? Does he really think that someone may see him at this time of night and criticize him for not being impeccably dressed?

A good lover will behave as elegantly at dawn as at any other time. He drags himself out of bed with a look of dismay on his face. The lady urges him on: “Come, my friend, it’s getting light. You don’t want anyone to find you here.” He gives a deep sigh, as if to say that the night has not been nearly long enough and that it is agony to leave. Once up, he does not instantly pull on his trousers. Instead, he comes close to the lady and whispers whatever was left unsaid during the night. Even when he is dressed, he still lingers, vaguely pretending to be fastening his sash.

Presently he raises the lattice, and the two lovers stand together by the side door while he tells her how he dreads the coming day, which will keep them apart; then he slips away. The lady watches him go, and this moment of parting will remain among her most charming memories.

Indeed, one’s attachment to a man depends largely on the elegance of his leave-taking. When he jumps out of bed, scurries about the room, tightly fastens his trouser-sash, rolls up the sleeves of his Court cloak, over-robe, or hunting costume, stuffs his belongings into the breast of his robe and then briskly secures the outer sash—one really begins to hate him.

by Sei Shonagon (c. 966 – 1017)

Blue Door Blue Window

The Blue Doors
by Julian Sullivan, 2021
from Annual Christmas Missive, 2021

"Lift up your heads O ye gates;
and be ye lift up, ye everlasting doors . . . "
Psalm 24:7 (KJV)
also, Handel's Messiah

The Window, 1970
by Vladimir Vladimirovich Zhivotkov (1940 - 2005)
Thanks Nikki!

What Is Blue

Blue is the color of the sky
Without a cloud
Cool, distant, beautiful
And proud.
Blue is the quiet sea
And the eyse of some people,
And many agree
As they grow older and older
Blue is the scarf
Spring wears on her shoulder.
Blue is twilight,
Shadows on snow,
Blue is feeling
Way down low.

Blue is a heron,
A sapphire ring,
You can smell blue
In many a thing:
Gentian and larkspur
Forget-me-nots, too.
And if you listen
You can hear blue
In wind over water
And wherever flax blooms
And when evening steps into
Lonely rooms.
Cold is blue:
Flame shot from a welding torch
Is, too:
Hot, wild, screaming, blistering Blue --
And on winter mornings
The dawns are blue.

from Hailstones & Halibut Bones
by Mary O'Neil (1906 - 1990)

Previous BLUE Posts

Blue Goddess

My World is Blue

Even Cowgirls

Blue Willow Santa

Always Have the Blues a Little

Road Trip ~ Blue Highways

Blue Moon, Blue Heart

Something Fine & Blue Willow Breakfast

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Mr. and Mrs. Blue Sky

Bright Blue October

When the Iris Blows Blue

That Old Blue Willow Has Me In Its Spell

In Praise of Breakfast

Breakfast Anyone? ~ by Therese Lynch
Honorable Mention ~ Annual Juried Show
September 2022
Wabash Valley Artists Society ~ Indiana
[See also, 1st place 2021]

Breakfast

A dinner party, coffee, tea,
Sandwich, or supper, all may be
In their way pleasant. But to me
Not one of these deserves the praise
That welcomer of new-born days,
A breakfast, merits; ever giving
Cheerful notice we are living
Another day refreshed by sleep,
When its festival we keep.
Now although I would not slight
Those kindly words we use ‘Good night’,
Yet parting words are words of sorrow,
And may not vie with sweet ‘Good Morrow’,
With which again our friends we greet,
When in the breakfast-room we meet,
At the social table round,
Listening to the lively sound
Of those notes which never tire,
Of urn, or kettle on the fire. . .

By Mary Lamb (1764 – 1847)

Kitchen God's Wife

Thanks to Etta for floral mugs & journal

Thanks to Igor for sending
"What are you waiting for my darling?"

This lovely video reminds me of my favorite passage
from Amy Tan's novel The Kitchen God's Wife
-- when Winnie offers her daughter Pearl
a cup of tea after Grand Aunti Du's funeral:

"I take a few quick sips. 'This is really good.' And I mean it. I have never tasted tea like this. It is smooth, pungent, and instantly addicting.

'This is from Grand Auntie,' my mother explains.

'A few years ago she bought it for herself. One hundred dollars a pound.'

'You're kidding.' I take another sip. It tastes even better.

'She told me, '"If I buy myself the cheap tea, then I am saying my whole life has not been worth something better." So she decided to buy herself the best tea, so she could drink it and feel like a rich person inside.'

I laugh.

My mother looks encouraged by my laughter. 'But then she thought, If I buy just a little, then I am saying my lifetime is almost over. So she bought enough tea for another lifetime. Three pounds! Can you imagine?'

'That's three hundred dollars!' I exclaim. Grand Auntie was the most frugal person I knew. . . . 'So she left you the tea in her will?' I say.

'Already gave it to me a few months ago . . . she told me . . you take this tea now so I can see how happy you are to receive it while I am still alive.'" (56 - 57)

Best Quality Tea Set
For Ellie from Auntie Etta

Ostara & Beltane

Happy May Day!
Not forgetting Walpurgisnacht
@ Master & Margarita

Also by this artist: Fall Favorites

More from the amazing, magical Keli Clark
Vernal Equinox ~ 2024 ~ Solar Eclipse

All previous Quotidian & Fortnightly
May Day Posts
2010
2011
2012
2013
2014
~~~
2016
2017
2018
2019

2020
& Fortnightly

2021

2022
& Fortnightly

2023
& from Tawney

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