[thanks to UC#1 and Spousal Unit, along with UC#3, the Thursday Morning Poetry Appreciation Circle, and Mother Nature for today’s BLOTT]
¡Que lluvia!
First, thanks to Mother Nature:
First rains in two and a half months, with 100°+ (F), (310.98°+ (K) during most of July and August.
UC#1’s Spousal Unit may have had enough!
The Toasting of Nuptials
UC#2 is a bit heart-broken at the news:
A couple observations:
- being a “self-described clairvoyant” implies that she skipped the official clairvoyant certification process
- why is she wearing a seat belt on a lawn chair?
- “I give it six months. Three if she cooks.” [1]
[1][From the movie Parenthood [about Tod and Julie’s marriage] Helen: I give them six months. Three, if she cooks.]
Need a Certificate of Clairvoyance? Not a problem – get out your checkbook because Late State Capitalism has you covered!
Thursday Morning Poetry Appreciation Circle
Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening
by Robert Frost
Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.
My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.
He gives his harness bells a shake
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound’s the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.
The woods are lovely, dark and deep,
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.
Go to the Limits of Your Longing
Book of Hours, I 59
Written by Rainer Maria Rilke
God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.
These are the words we dimly hear:
You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.
Flare up like a flame
and make big shadows I can move in.
Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.
Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.
Give me your hand.
The Summer Day by Mary Oliver Who made the world? Who made the swan, and the black bear? Who made the grasshopper? This grasshopper, I mean- the one who has flung herself out of the grass, the one who is eating sugar out of my hand, who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down- who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes. Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face. Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away. I don’t know exactly what a prayer is. I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass, how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields, which is what I have been doing all day. Tell me, what else should I have done? Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon? Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?