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| My George Washington, Father of His Country, Socks |
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| Vaguely Patriotic Alternative
[Halloween Version] |
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| I just wish these Hamilton socks said:
"I'm not throwing away my SOCKS." That would be way funnier, especially after they got holes in the heels! |
The Harlequin of Dreams
Swift, through some trap mine eyes have never found,
Dim-panelled in the painted scene of Sleep,
Thou, giant Harlequin of Dreams, dost leap
Upon my spirit’s stage. Then Sight and Sound,
Then Space and Time, then Language, Mete and Bound,
And all familiar Forms that firmly keep
Man’s reason in the road, change faces, peep
Betwixt the legs and mock the daily round.
Yet thou canst more than mock: sometimes my tears
At midnight break through bounden lids—a sign
Thou hast a heart: and oft thy little leaven
Of dream-taught wisdom works me bettered years.
In one night witch, saint, trickster, fool divine,
I think thou’rt Jester at the Court of Heaven!
Sidney Lanier (1842 – 1881)
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| It's always The Year of the Cat, right?
Okay, I know that the cat is not a Chinese Zodiac animal, but remember this magical song? |
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| True Story: This afternoon,
Gerry and I saw an actual real live groundhog, hanging out on the roadside near our house -- on Groundhog Day! What’s the odds? To tell the truth, the poor thing looked terrified, as if he’d like to run away and hide for the entirety of 2024! Who can blame him? We drove by too quickly for a photograph, so I borrowed this very similar one from the internet. |
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| "Write on your heart that
Today is the Best Day" I've had this stained glass suncatcher for many years, a present from my mom, when I was in graduate school. |
“Write it on your heart
that every day is the best day in the year.
He is rich who owns the day, and no one owns the day
who allows it to be invaded with fret and anxiety.
Finish every day and be done with it.
You have done what you could.
Some blunders and absurdities, no doubt crept in.
Forget them as soon as you can, tomorrow is a new day;
begin it well and serenely, with too high a spirit
to be cumbered with your old nonsense.
This new day is too dear,
with its hopes and invitations,
to waste a moment on the yesterdays.”
~ Ralph Waldo Emerson (1803 - 1882)
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| To close out the extended Christmas season, you might enjoy
Cunk on Christmas: Moments of Wonder (2016), in which comedian Diane Morgan, aka Philomena Cunk, provides a droll yet introspective and quasi-historically accurate review of holiday customs. |
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| Forest-Llewellyn Cemetery ~ Kirksville, Missouri
ethereal photo by Jay Beets ~ cosmic illumination through the fog ~ |
"A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, further westwards, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling too upon every part of the lonely churchyard where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead."
"The end of Joyce's "The Dead" is probably the most beautiful poem pretending to be prose ever."
"When you get so near the dead, they seem more real than the living. . . ." (164)
"Marie sat sewing or crocheting and tried to take a friendly interest in the game, but she was always thinking about the wide fields outside, where the snow was drifting over the fences; and about the orchard, where the snow was falling and packing, crust over crust. When she went out into the dark kitchen to fix her plants for the night, she used to stand by the window and look out at the white fields, or watch the currents of snow whirling over the orchard. She seemed to feel the weight of all the snow that lay down there. The branches had become so hard that they wounded your hand if you but tried to break a twig. And yet, down under the frozen crusts, at the roots of the trees, the secret of life was still safe, warm as the blood in one’s heart; and the spring would come again! Oh, it would come again!" (117)
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| My street tonight,
under the first full moon of 2024. |
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| New York Fairytale |
The Snow Globe
A long time ago, when I was a child,
They left my light on while I went to sleep,
As though they would have wanted me beguiled
By brightness if at all; dark was too deep.
And they left me one toy, a village white
With the fresh snow and silently in glass
Frozen forever. But if you shook it,
The snow would rise up in the rounded space
And from the limits of the universe
Snow itself down again. 0 world of white,
First home of dreams! Now that I have my dead,
I want so cold an emblem to rehearse
How many of them have gone from the world’s light,
As I have gone, too, from my snowy bed. (1977)
Howard Nemerov (1920-1991)
See also Moving Day & Ginkgo Light
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| "London Fairytale" |
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| Another fun snow globe card
from my friend Marguerite. Aidan and Ellie love the "Press Here" feature for snowfall and music! |
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| New York City ~ Snow Globe Stuffy |
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| Our Philadelphia Snow Globe, with mummers! |
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| Thanks to Julie Windhorst
~ artist, photographer, friend ~ for sharing her paintings of hope (above) and warmth (below) to brighten our bleak mid - January |
Willa Cather: "Winter was long in coming that year. Throughout October the days were bathed in sunlight and the air was clear as crystal. The town kept its cheerful summer aspect, the desert glistened with light, the sand hills every day went through magical changes of color. The scarlet sage bloomed late in the front yards, the cottonwood leaves were bright gold long before they fell, and it was not until November that the green on the tamarisks began to cloud and fade. There was a flurry of snow about Thanksgiving, and then December came on warm and clear. . . . "
~ from The Song of the Lark (Part I, Chapter VIII)
~ more Cather on FN and KL
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| Painting by Julie Windhorst |
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| Ellie:
"There's ice all around our neighborhood! Like Ana and Elsa! |
