Good thought for the day:
"dream a little before you think"
Pierre Bonnard was a great dreamer. I saw this (dreamy) painting in Grenoble, the year of the quest to find every Bonnard in France.
Image: Pierre Bonnard, Siesta
"dream a little before you think"
and have you ever felt for anything such wild love-- do you think there is anywhere, in any language, a word billowing enough for the pleasure that fills you, as the sun reaches out, as it warms you as you stand there, empty-handed—
In keeping with universal saloon practice,
the clock here is set 15 minutes ahead
of all the clocks in the outside world.
This makes us a rather advanced group,
doing our drinking in the unknown future,
immune from the cares of the present,
safely harbored a quarter of an hour
beyond the woes of the contemporary scene.
No wonder such thoughtless pleasure derives
from tending the small fire of a cigarette,
from observing this class of whiskey and ice,
the cold rust I am sipping,
or from having an eye on the street outside
when Ordinary Time slouches past in a topcoat,
rain running off the brim of his hat,
the late edition like a flag in his pocket.
Some time after the books had been forbidden—
The one about the woman and her daughter,
The one about the boy who spoke poorly—
And after the smoke from the incinerators had cleared,
It was suggested that censorship be extended
To the plover, the wild turkey, and the common moorhen.
But these birds have done nothing, a few protested.
That is precisely the problem, the loudspeakers answered.
It rained that month day and night.
Men with nets fanned out into the fields
And shouted to each other along the shorelines.
Teachers disappeared on the way to their cars.
Then the committee came after the morning glory
For its suggestive furling and unfurling
And the ligustrum and the alstroemeria
Because they were difficult to pronounce and spell.
Then the pine tree for its tricky needles and cones
And parsley and red and yellow peppers for no reason at all.
You would think the lock and the gate
Would be safe, but that was well before whispering,
Shaking hands on the street,
And hooking an arm around someone’s waist
Became the subjects of discussion
Across long granite tables behind dark glass doors.
And the rain was constant and cold—fine days
to curl up with a good book, someone joked—
but there were no more books,
just the curling up of people quietly in corners and doorways,
bits of straw floating down the streets
along the curbs into the turbulent rivers and out to sea.
A cicada shell;
It sang itself
The sea darkens—
a wild duck’s call
down along a wasps’ nest, water
leaking through the roof
at autumn’s end
still with hope for the future
washed spotlessly white—
It grew in the black mud.
It grew under the tiger's orange paws.
Its stems thicker than candles, and as straight.
Its leaves like the feathers of egrets,
The grains cresting, wanting to burst.
Oh, blood of the tiger.
I don't want you to just sit at the table.
I don't want you just to eat, and be content.
I want you to walk into the fields
Where the water is shining, and the rice has risen.
I want you to stand there,
far from the white tablecloth.
I want you to fill your hands with mud,
like a blessing.
On Pancake Day, pancake races are held in villages and towns across the United Kingdom. The tradition is said to have originated when a housewife from Olney was so busy making pancakes that she forgot the time until she heard the church bells ringing for the service. She raced out of the house to church while still carrying her frying pan and pancake. It remains a relatively common festive tradition in the UK, particularly in England even today, is the pancake race whereby participants race through the streets whilst tossing pancakes into the air, catching them in the pan whilst running.
The tradition of pancake racing had started long before that. The most famous pancake race, at Olney in Buckinghamshire, has been held since 1445. The contestants, traditionally women, carry a frying pan and race to the finishing line while tossing the pancakes as they go. The winner is the first to cross the line having tossed the pancake a certain number of times. Traditionally, when men want to participate, they must dress up as a housewife (usually an apron and a bandanna).
“for here there is no place
that does not see you. You must change your life.”
There must be something strangely sacred in salt. It is in our tears and in the sea.