Thursday, October 23, 2014

Weave in, My Hardy Life

 - Walt Whitman

Weave in, weave in, my hardy life,
Weave yet a soldier strong and full for great campaigns to come,
Weave in red blood, weave sinews in like ropes, the senses, sight weave in,
Weave lasting sure, weave day and night the weft, the warp, incessant weave, tire not,
(We know not what the use O life, nor know the aim, the end, nor really aught we know,
But know the work, the need goes on and shall go on, the death-envelop’d march of peace as
       well as war goes on,)
For great campaigns of peace the same the wiry threads to weave,
We know not why or what, yet weave, forever weave.

Tuesday, October 21, 2014

Series V - (Not Really) Guilty Pleasures



One of my series had a recent new addition!

Richard Castle's new Niki Heat book,


was released last month, and yes, I have ordered it.

I'll let you know how it is.

I enjoy the TV series and I think the novels, written by the title character, are a fun tie in.

I collect cookbooks written by characters from murder mysteries, so I guess I was already predisposed to like it. I have cookbooks 'written by' Kaye Scarpetta, Nero Wolfe, and Sneaky Pie Brown, From the kitchens of The Cat Who ... , and of course,  the world of Harry Potter (and always on the lookout for more).

I am in the middle of the Sister Mary Helen Series, Sister Carol Anne O'Marie, a nun who wrote murder mysteries about a nun who enjoys reading murder mysteries and ends up solving murders. It's been fun so far.

I am also a fan of Rex Stout's Nero Wolfe Series, from way back. As well as John Sandford's, The Prey Series and The Dismas Hardy Series , by John Lescroart.

I like the continuity of reading a series, old friends, familiar places . . . I'm sure that says something about the state of my psyche.

. . . And if I were really truthful, I don't really feel guilty about any of them.

Dr. Seuss on Writing

It has often been said
there’s so much to be read,
you never can cram
all those words in your head.

So the writer who breeds
more words than he needs
is making a chore
for the reader who reads.

That's why my belief is
the briefer the brief is,
the greater the sigh
of the reader's relief is.

And that's why your books
have such power and strength.
You publish with shorth!
(Shorth is better than length.)
 

                            - Dr. Seuss

from: About Education.

Monday, October 20, 2014

Kilt Monday!


'Cause let's face it,
Mondays can be so rough, hard, difficult.


Sunday, October 19, 2014

Quote of the Day


The writer is either a practicing recluse 
or a delinquent, guilt-ridden one - or both.
Usually both. 
- Susan Sontag 

Saturday, October 18, 2014

Saturday Farmer's Market - Nature & Poetry



Created by Heather at Capricious Reader, and now hosted by Chris at Stuff as Dreams are Made on.

It is believed that the "apple" from the Bible was actually a Pomegranate.
I can believe that.
Mine are about the size of softballs.


The Pomegranate
 - Khalil Gibran

Once when I was living in the heart of a pomegranate, I heard a seed
saying, “Someday I shall become a tree, and the wind will sing in
my branches, and the sun will dance on my leaves, and I shall be
strong and beautiful through all the seasons.”

Then another seed spoke and said, “When I was as young as you, I
too held such views; but now that I can weigh and measure things,
I see that my hopes were vain.”

And a third seed spoke also, “I see in us nothing that promises so
great a future.”

And a fourth said, “But what a mockery our life would be, without
a greater future!”

Said a fifth, “Why dispute what we shall be, when we know not even
what we are.”

But a sixth replied, “Whatever we are, that we shall continue to
be.”

And a seventh said, “I have such a clear idea how everything will
be, but I cannot put it into words.”

Then an eight spoke–and a ninth–and a tenth–and then many–until
all were speaking, and I could distinguish nothing for the many
voices.
And so I moved that very day into the heart of a quince, where the
seeds are few and almost silent.

The program I use to crop my photos updated recently, and as all too often happens, it has become far less user friendly. At this point I still can't even do a simple crop. 

The upshot of this is that I have some bird pictures to share with you that will not be very good. 

That being said, here goes . . .

We moved the Bird Bath to the house side of the Fortnight Lily, in the mailbox bed. The plant had grown high enough to obscure the it, and my hose was just barely long enough to fill it. 

There. All better.

When we moved it we found a big toad hunkering down beneath it. (Sorry, forgot to take a picture.) 

I fixed one of my broken pots over him and filled in around it with dirt. 

That should keep him safe until he decides what to do. 


There is plenty of loose dirt in the bed, near the fence and beneath the bird bath. And he has several choices of where to make his home. 

I hope he stays.

At first the birds were mystified. 

They kept going from the fence to the sidewalk and back like they were lost, and chattering among themselves as if to say, "Where'd it go? It was here a little while ago."

Birds aren't generally known for their intelligence. After all, the phrase 'you are such a bird brain' is not a compliment.

They finally figured it out, though, and picked up where they had left off in their revelry.


 



I added larger trays to my feeders to hold the bird seed. I just had to fill the smaller ones too often. 

Now they look like strange flowers in my garden. 

But the birds are very happy.

And after all, isn't that what really counts?


 






This little beauty is a Lesser Goldfinch
male, I believe.









In this (lucky) shot, a female Anna's Hummingbird is checking out the Tomatoes.


And here is another of the indigenous creatures, the Fuzzy Traveler, returning to his den.


Toad Dreams
- Marge Piercy

That afternoon the dream of the toads rang through the elms by Little River and affected the thoughts of men, though they were not conscious that they heard it. - Henry Thoreau

The dream of toads: we rarely
credit what we consider lesser
life with emotions big as ours,
but we are easily distracted,
abstracted. People sit nibbling
before television's flicker watching
ghosts chase balls and each other
while the skunk is out risking grisly
death to cross the highway to mate;
while the fox scales the wire fence
where it knows the shotgun lurks
to taste the sweet blood of a hen.
Birds are greedy little bombs
bursting to give voice to appetite.
I had a cat who died of love.
Dogs trail their masters across con-
tinents. We are far too busy
to be starkly simple in passion.
We will never dream the intense
wet spring lust of the toads.

from: Stone Paper Knife. Copyright 1983.

Friday, October 17, 2014

Poetry

- Pablo Neruda
 

And it was at that age...Poetry arrived
in search of me. I don't know, I don't know where
it came from, from winter or a river.
I don't know how or when,
no, they were not voices, they were not
words, nor silence,
but from a street I was summoned,
from the branches of night,
abruptly from the others,
among violent fires
or returning alone,
there I was without a face
and it touched me.

I did not know what to say, my mouth
had no way
with names
my eyes were blind,
and something started in my soul,
fever or forgotten wings,
and I made my own way,
deciphering
that fire
and I wrote the first faint line,
faint, without substance, pure
nonsense,
pure wisdom
of someone who knows nothing,
and suddenly I saw
the heavens
unfastened
and open,
planets,
palpitating plantations,
shadow perforated,
riddled
with arrows, fire and flowers,
the winding night, the universe.

And I, infinitesimal being,
drunk with the great starry
void,
likeness, image of
mystery,
I felt myself a pure part
of the abyss,
I wheeled with the stars,
my heart broke loose on the wind.