WHAT I'M READING -- FOR THE FOURTH TIME

In Annie Dillard’s For the Time Being she quotes one Ralph Harper as asking, “Why should one not try to imagine his arms around Being?”  And I wonder, How does one come to consider that?

When, in her on-foot exploration of the Mediterranean lands, Dillard discovers the source of the River Jordan, she describes the spot as a “seep at the earth’s crust.” 

“In all this sober glory,” she continues, “something surprising appeared.  I saw something moving.”

Though my curiosity is fierce – what is this Something? -- I lay the book aside, needing to hold the moment, let the anticiipation seep through me, here in my chair. 

My breakfast is on a small table beside me. I pick up my coffee and take a sip, then lift my eyes to find the dog solemnly watching as I choose a slice of banana. 

I notice, in the black fur of the cat in my lap, a sesame seed fallen from my bagel.  The cat shifts, sneezes, settles back into sleep. 

            My own Being.  My own sober glory.  I pick up the book.

 

BOOK FOR REAL

I am a fool for story, and so when I was given a small paperback of Carson McCullers’s The Ballad of the Sad Café and Other Stories, I have been reading them slowly, spacing them out as if they were nuggets of Godiva chocolate. 

Last night there was “Madame Zilensky and the King of Finland,” this morning with breakfast “The Sojourner,” a poignant little piece in which John Ferris, businessman and world traveler, stops to visit his former wife Elizabeth and her family and is struck by the obvious joy and rightness of their lives.  Though the story is flawless -- not a phrase or image too much or too little, no unfortunate slide into sentimentality -- and though at the end I was consumed with longing and melancholy, these are not why I am writing of it here. 

No.  What I felt at the end of this short piece was an overwhelming urge to caress the book itself with its flimsy cover, its pulp pages.  If it hadn’t been so melodramatic, I would have clutched it to my breast and moaned.  Now, I can’t imagine doing that with a Kindle.

DID I WRITE THIS OR STEAL IT??

“If the road is dark and you have not a light, close your eyes.  Rest them for when the light appears.” 

FINISHING LINE PRESS

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A FEW THOUGHTS ON INSPIRATION/MEDITATION

Don't discount any source that soothes you.  I now own a collection of exotic chickens.  Actually, it's a book on the subject, which lives on my coffee table where, at any time, I can flip it open and lose myself in the -- well, the exoticness of it all.  Here's a little something you might not know: "The Araucana from South America . . . lays eggs that have a faint green or blue tint.  The native Araucas resisted the mating of their birds with those of the conquering Spaniards, thus preserving the character of these chickens.  This breed has ear muffs . . . and . . . wears a beard."  Now, what could be more quirky?  This little blip of arcaneness I can now carry around in my head and focus on it whenever someone starts trying to screw up my day. 

LOST

Marking my place in "Ballad of the Sad Cafe"
was a scrap so small and frayed
that it fell out and got lost in the bedclothes,
maybe drifted to the floor
where the vacuum sucked it up
or the cat chased it into a dusty corner.
So, how will I know
where to pick up and start again?
Like that unplanned call from the deathman,
this tiny loss has left me adrift.
It will take a certain offhandedness,
a what-the-hell outlook to start again,
since the plot has left me,
the characters strayed away.
I will just have to trust
or try to make up what's happened so far. 
But then, the story may not be
what matters now. 
What matters now is the picking up,
the starting again.